The  Po^as 


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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


.> 


1 


'rnK 


POEMS 


OF 


RICHARD   HENRY  STODDARD 


Complete  Edition 


IVhen  I  ■svnlk  by  inyselj  aloue 

It  doth  tne  good  my  songs  to  render 

OLD  PI.AV 


N  E  \y     ^'  (^  R  K 

CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S     SONS 

i8So 


Copyright  bv 
CHARLES  SCRIBNERS  SONS 


Trow's 

i'rinting  and  bookbinding  company, 

201-213  Kast  \2th  street, 

NEW  YORK. 


PROEM. 

Like  one  who  hath  been  long  in  cities  pent, 
Content  with  their  close  neighborhoods,  wherein 
There  is  no  sight  nor  sound  of  the  bright  world 
That  Cod  made,  slope  of  hills  where  cattle  feed, 
Valleys  7uhere  rivers  glisten,  shady  woods, 
And  over  all  the  immeasurable  sky. 

Through  which,  with  pomp  of  clouds,  the  Sun  and  Moon 
Co  on  their  way  rejoicing,  but,  instead, 
A  low-hung  vault  of  vapor,  sullen,  dense, 
That  shuts  the  day  and  night  out,  dull  brick  walls. 
Houses  with  locked,  inhospitable  doors. 
From  out  whose  narrow  windows  no  one  looks, 
For  what  is  there  to  see  save  noisy  streets. 
Over  whose  stony  pavements  heavy  drays 
Rumble  itt  dust,  and,  where  the  long  streets  end, 
And  the  dark  waves  begin,  the  masts  of  ships, 
The  only  forestry  that  cities  have  ? 
It  happens,  or  is  ordered,  that  this  man 
Departs  from  these  some  day,  a7id  finds  himself 
Flying  by  rail  through  urban  villages. 
Past  cosey  cottages,  gardens,  winding  roads. 
That  lead,  be  sure,  to  happy  country  homes  y 
Or,  sailing  up  a  river,  or  a  Sound, 
He  sees  their  ruffled  billows  come  and  go. 
Dashing  in  ragged  foam  against  the  bow. 
And  weltering  swift  astern  in  a  long,  white  wake 


ivi363578 


iv  PROEM. 

That  tumbles,  atid  boils,  and  bubbles,  until  at  last 

It  breaks  in  little  ripples  on  the  shore. 

Green  to  the  water'' s  edge  :  before  he  knows 

The  sight  of  this  bright  river,  or  this  Sound, 

The  everlasting  freedo7n  of  their  ways, 

Whether  they  journey  to  the  parent  Sea, 

With  messages  and  prophecies  froin  Land, 

Or,  drawn  front  out  its  depths,  return  in  clouds, 

And  find  their  secret  springs  among  the  hills, 

To  straighttvay  journey  to  the  Sea  again  : 

The  touch  of  the  cool  wind  that  stirs  his  hair, 

And  fans  his  cheek,  and  wafts  him  scent  of  flowers, 

Or  the  salt  savor  of  the  ycsty  brine ; 

Before  he  knows  the  winds  and  waves  efface 

Reniembratice  of  the  City  from  his  brain, 

And  make  him  Man  again  :  and  when  he  comes 

Back  to  the  dear  old  place  where  he  was  born, 

And  where  his  childhood  passed,  the  burden  of  years 

Slips  suddettly  from  him,  and  his  heart  grows  light  : 

There  is  a  springy  motion  in  his  step. 

As  though  the  blood  7vas  lilting  in  his  veins, 

And,  if  his  feet  cotild  overtake  his  thoughts, 

(They  will,)  he  would  be  everywhere  at  once, 

For  he  is  child,  and  boy,  and  man  at  once. 

Here  is  the  rustic  porch  in  which  he  sat. 

Here  are  the  garden  beds,  edged  round  with  box, 

Down  which  he  played,  and  plucked  forbidden  flowers  : 

Here  is  the  barn,  upon  whose  seedy  floor 

He  stumbled,  and  in  whose  dry,  dark  mo7v  he  hid  : 

There  are  the  orchard  trees  he  used  to  climb 

For  russets,  winter  greenings  j  this  the  path. 

Through  which,  at  morn,  he  loitered,  book  in  hand, 

Afid  reached  the  school-house  just  as  the  bell  was  rung . 

And  this  a  short  cut  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

Where  he  discovered  the  bird's  nest,  full  of  eggs, 


PROEM. 

Which  soon  were  little,  doiony,  cheeping  birds  : 
And  this  green  lane,  luhose  grassy  footpath  winds 
Through  rows  of  slender  beeches,  white  and  tall — 
What  leaps  of  heart  were  his  that  happy  night, 
When,  after  strong  persuasions  long  refused, 
And  promises  made,  and  broken,  came  the  hour 
That  she  relented,  and  he  walked  with  her, 
Under  the  soft  light  of  the  summer  moon 
For  the  first  time,  and  stole  his  clinging  arm 
Around  her  waist,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers 
For  the  first  time — Was  it  a  dream  of  bliss, 
Too  sweet,  too  deep,  too  heavenly  high  to  last. 
Or  the  sober  certainty  of  waking  life. 
The  sudden  fiowering  of  a  double  Life, 
Foretaste  of  Heave fi  in  this  dark,  work-day  world? 

Like  this  poor,  rich,  unhappy,  happy  man. 
Who,  when  his  short-lived  season  of  delight 
Jn  the  old  town  where  he  was  born,  and  where 
His  happiest  hours  were  spetit,  is  gone,  returns 
Unwillingly  to  the  City  where  he  dwells, 
And  where  the  remnant  of  his  days  will  end. 
Am  L,  for  L  have  been  sojourning  late 
Among  the  pleasant  places  of  my  Fast, 
The  green  and  quiet  neighborhoods  of  Thought, 
Ln  which  I  wandered  in  jny  wayward  youth. 
With  no  co)npanion  but  the  constant  Muse, 
Who  sought  me  when  L  needed  her — ah  when 
Did  L  not  need  her,  solitary  else  ? 
/  have  lived  over  my  dead  life  with  her. 
And  it  hath  made  me  happy  for  a  time, 
But  left  me  saddened,  for  /  see,  too  late, 
Both  what  it  was,  and  what  it  might  have  been. 
These  sottgs  of  mine,  the  best  that  I  have  sung, 
Are  not  my  best,  for  caged  within  the  lines 
Are  thousands  better  {if  they  would  but  sing .') 


VI  PROEM. 

Silent  amid  the  clamor  of  their  mates. 

I  know  they  are  imperfect,  none  so  well, 

Echoes  at  first,  no  doubt,  of  older  songs, 

{Not  knowingly  caught,  but  echoes  all  the  same,) 

Fancies  where  facts  were  wanting,  or  hard  facts 

Which  only  fancies  made  endurable  ; 

I  grant,  before  hand,  all  the  faults  they  have. 

Too  deeply  rooted  to  be  plucked  up  now, 

And  leave  them  to  their  fate  :  content  to  know 

That  they  sustained  me  in  my  dreariest  days. 

That  they  consoled  me  in  my  darkest  nights. 

And  to  belie7>e,  now  I  have  done  with  them, 

I  may  do  well  enough  to  win  at  last 

The  Latirel  I  have  missed  so  matty  years. 

R.  H.  S. 


CONTENTS. 


EARLY   POEMS  (1851). 
The  Castle  in  the  Air      . 
Hymn  to  Flora    . 
Ode         ...         . 
Leonatus 

Spring     .... 
Autumn 

The  Witch's  Whelp 
Hymn  to  the  Beautiful 
To  a  Celebrated  Singer   . 
Arcadian  Idyl 
The  South 
Triumphant  Music 
A  Household  Dirge 
"  How  are  songs  begot  and  bred  " 
Silent  Songs  .... 
"  There's  a  new  grave  " 

Song 

Song 

Song        ..... 
The  Two  Brides  .... 
"  I  sympathize  with  all  thy  grief" 
A  Serenade  .... 

"  The  yellow  Moon  looks  slantly  down 
"  Along  the  grassy  slope  I  sit " 


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II 

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21 

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49 
49 
50 


SONGS   OF   SUMMER  (1856). 

The  Flight  of  Youth        .... 

"Thy  father  is  a  King,  my  child" 

"  A  few,  frail  summers  had  touched  thee  " 


53 
53 
54 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


The  Song  of  the  Syrens 

"  Range  yourselves,  my  merry  men" 

The  Sea 

The  Shadow  of  the  Hand 

The  Speech  of  Love     . 

"You  may  drink  to  your  leman  in  gold" 

The  Sea       .         .         •         .         . 

Birds 

The  Lost  Lamb    .... 

*'  The  sky  is  a  drinking-cup  "  . 
On  the  Pier  .... 

"  Spring,  they  tell  me,  comes  in  bloom 
"  The  gray  old  Earth  goes  on  "    . 
'•  There  is  no  sin  to  hearts  that  love  " 
The  Divan  ..... 

"  Here  I  lie,  a  tress  of  hair "    . 
"  The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea  " 
Day  and  Night  .... 

The  Dead   ..... 

The  Sea.         ..... 

"  Many's  the  time  I've  sighed  for  summer 
A  Serenade      ..... 

"  The  house  is  dai-k  and  dreary  " 

"  The  phantom  that  walks  in  the  sun  " 

The  Night  before  the  Bridal 

"  Dim  grows  the  sky,  and  dusk  the  air 

Summer  and  Autumn  . 

The  Helmet 

Roses  and  Thorns         ... 
"  Beneath  the  heavy  curtains  " 
"  Rattle  the  window,  Winds" 
The  Veiled  Statue 
Dead  Leaves       .... 
"  Poems  of  the  Orient  "  . 

The  Sea 

At  Rest 

"  Wrecks  of  clouds  of  a  sombre  gray 
"No,  I  will  not  leave  you.  Madam" 
The  Shadow        .... 


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CONTENTS. 


IX 


November        ..... 

Carmen  Naturce  Triumphale 

Invocation  to  Sleep 

The  Stork  and  the  Ruby 

"  We  are  bent  with  age  and  cares"  . 

Pain  in  Autumn  .         ,         .  .         . 

The  First  Snow        .... 

The  Abdication  of  Noman    . 

The  Children's  Prayer 

"  By  the  margent  of  the  sea  " 

Choric  Hymn  .... 

The  Fisher  and  Charon 

Great  and  Small      .... 

The  Poplar  .         .         .         .         . 

Miserrimus      ..... 

The  Squire  of  Low  Degree  . 

Imogen  ..... 

The  Flamingo      .         .         .         .         . 

The  Serenade  of  Ma-Han-Shan 

The  Sledge  at  the  Gate 

The  Grape  Gatherer 

Sicilian  Pastoral  .  .  .  .  . 

"  We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan  " 

The  Search  for  Persephone  . 

On  a  Child's  Picture 


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94 

95 

97 

98 

106 

108 

III 

"3 
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124 
126 
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135 
138 
139 
141 
142 

143 
144 

145 
159 


THE   KINGS   BELL  (iJ 
The  Kincr's  Bell   . 


5). 


165 


THE  BOOK   OF   THE   EAST  (1871). 
Persi.\n  Songs. 

"  Sweet  are  the  garden  spaces" 

"  The  heart  where  love  and  patience  dwell ' 

"Not  wholly,  poet,  from  the  eyes" 

"My  little  soul,  my  lover"  . 

"Two  strings  for  my  guitar  "  . 

"  Your  hands  are  red  with  henna  " 

"She does  not  hear  my  sighing" 

"Do  not  yet  put  on  your  slippers" 


201 
201 
202 
202 
203 
203 
204 
205 


X 


CONTENTS. 


"  I  fell  in  love  with  a  Turkish  maid  " 

"  It  is  a  morn  in  winter  "      .... 

"  Joy  may  be  a  miser  "  ... 

"  Thus  to  waste  the  precious  hours"    . 

"Day  and  night  my  thoughts  incline " 

"  In  the  market-place  one  day"    . 

"  Apart  from  all  the  creatures  of  the  earth" 

"  What  sweetness  is  there  in  th©  honeycomb  " 
Tartar  Songs. 

"  Yes,  we  are  merry  Cossacks  " 

"  The  merry  spring  is  here  " 

"  I  am  drunk  with  thy  fragrant  breath  " 

"  I  wandered  by  a  river  "     . 

"  O  Follower  of  the  Prophet " 

"  He  rode  from  the  Khora  Tukhan  "    . 

"Blow,  Wind,  blow"     ... 

"  My  war-horse  was  fond  of  my  singing  " 

"I  am  a  white  falcon,  hurrah" 

"  I  am  dying  of  the  brand" 

"  Wail  on,  thou  bleeding  nightingale  " 

"  Forgive  me,  mother  dear  "... 
Arab  Songs. 

"  O  lovely  fawn  !  O  my  gazelle"     . 

''  Break  thou  my  heart,  ah,  break  it  "  . 

"  Beloved,  since  they  watch  us"     . 

"  Thou  art  my  only  love  "   . 

"  I  hid  my  love  when  near  you  " 

"  Girl,  I  love  thee  !  " 

"  If  you  meet  my  sweet  gazelle  "      . 
Chinese  Songs. 

"  Up  in  an  old  pagoda's  highest  tower  " 

"  What  time  my  husband  went  to  banishment ' 

"  Moulan  is  weaving  at  her  cottage  door  "   . 

"  We  started  when  the  clarion  of  the  cock  "     . 

"  Millions  of  flowers  are  blowing  in  the  fields  " 

"  The  shadows  of  the  swallows" 

"  The  farmer  cuts  the  So  leaves  " 

"East,  or  west,  to  the  pastures"    . 
"  He  saw  in  sight  of  his  house  "  . 


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CONTENTS. 


XI 


PAOB 

"  Before  the  scream  of  the  hawk  " 

.       229 

"  The  dark  and  rainy  weather"    .... 

230 

"  Stretched  in  flowers  and  moonlight  "     . 

.       230 

"  It  grieves  the  bee  and  butterfly  "... 

231 

"  Now  the  wind  is  softest  "      .... 

•       231 

"  The  grove  is  crowned  with  hoar-frost 

232 

"  I  hear  the  sacred  swan  "        .         .         .         .         . 

•       233 

A  Woman's  Poem 

234 

Without  and  Within 

•       237 

On  the  Town        ....... 

242 

The  Ballad  of  Valley  Forge      .... 

.       246 

The  Wine-cup      ....... 

260 

The  King's  Sentinel 

.       262 

The  Ballad  of  Crecy    ...... 

267 

Rome 

.       270 

Ctesar           ........ 

273 

Abraham  Lincoln    ...... 

.       276 

The  Children  of  Isis     ...... 

.             283 

"  Why  stand  ye  gazing  into  Heaven  " 

.       288 

WiUiam  Shakespeare    ...... 

290 

Adsum     ........ 

•       294 

Vates  Patriae 

296 

At  Gadshill 

•       299 

The  Country  Life 

302 

An  Invocation          ....... 

•       304 

A  Catch 

30s 

The  King  is  Cold 

.        306 

The  Messenger  at  Night 

308 

Out  to  Sea 

•       309 

A  Greek  Song 

310 

"  Wandering  along  a  waste  "  .... 

•       311 

Head  or  Heart    ....... 

312 

Drifting 

•       313 

The  Proud  Lover          ...... 

315 

"  I  know  a  little  rose  "    . 

•        315 

The  Dying  Lover 

315 

Under  the  Rose 

.        316 

Even-Song  ........ 

.             316 

Under  the  Trees       ....... 

•       317 

xii                                       CONTEXTS. 

PAGE 

"It  is  a  winter  night  "          .... 

.              318 

Leaves    ........ 

.              .        318 

Courage  and  Patience 

319 

To  Bayard  Taylor  ...... 

•        319 

To  Edmund  Clarence  Stedmau     . 

320 

To  James  Lorimer  Graliam,  Jr. 

.        320 

Colonel  Frederick  Taylor     .... 

321 

To  Jervis  McEntee,  Arlibt       .... 

.        322 

Florence  Nightingale  ..... 

322 

To  a  Friend 

•        323 

In  Memoriam. 

'•  I  am  followed  by  a  spirit  "... 

323 

'•  What  shall  I  sing,  and  how  "... 

.        324 

"  The  Christmas  time  drew  slowly  near  '' 

325 

"  I  sit  in  my  lonesome  chamber  "     . 

•        326 

•'  You  think,  I  see  it  by  your  looks"    . 

327 

"  What  shall  we  do  when  those  we  love  " 

.        328 

"  We  sat  by  the  cheerless  fireside  "       . 

329 

"  It  looks  in  at  the  window  "  . 

•        330 

"  Wliat  shall  I  do  next  summer  " 

331 

"  When  first  he  died  there  was  no  day ''  . 

•        332 

'*  The  dreary  winter  days  are  past  " 

333 

"  Out  of  the  deeps  of  heaven  "... 

•     334 

LATER  POEMS  (1871-1880). 

An  Old  Man's  Song  of  May 

337 

An  Old  Man's  New- Year's  Song      . 

•         •     338 

The  Vanished  May       ..... 

339 

A  New  Year's  Song         ..... 

•     340 

May  ]3ay 

342 

Up  in  the  Trees       ...... 

■     344 

An  old  Song  Reversed           .... 

345 

Songs  Unsung 

•     346 

Siste,  Viator         ...... 

347 

Youth  and  Age 

•     348 

Irreparable 

350 

The  Two  Anchors  ...... 

•     351 

Too  Old  for  Kisses 

353 

The  Lady's  Gift 

.     355 

CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


The  Marriage  Knot      .... 

Phillis 

The  Necklace  of  Pearls 
The  Flower  of  Love  lies  Bleeding     . 
Wishing  and  Having    .... 
The  Follower  .  .         •         .  , 

Love's  Will  ..... 

The  Fillet 

A  Catch 

Love        ....... 

At  Last 

A  Dirge  ...... 

A  Carcanet  ..... 

A  Rose  Song  ..... 

Lilian  ....... 

Going  Home  ...... 

At  the  Window    ..... 

Sorrow  and  Joy       .... 

In  Alsatia    ..... 

The  Flown  Bird 

The  Rivals  ...... 

The  Voice  of  Earth         .... 

Saint  and  Sinner.         .... 

Brahma's  Answer     ..... 

HViMNS     OF    THE    MYSTICS. 

"  Roses  I  see,  the  sweetest  roses  " 

"  The  love  I  bear  you,  dearest  " 

"  The  flying  of  the  arrow  " 

"  Their  names  who  famous  were  of  old  " 

•'  Trust  not  fortune.     She  will  be  " 

"  Men  seek  retreats,  and  some  retire" 

"  What  harmonious  is  with  thee  " 

"  Thou  though  shouldst  live  a  thousand  years 

"  Pain  and  pleasure  both  decay  " 

"The  whole  of  this  great  world,  I  say  "  . 

"  When  the  drum  of  sickness  beats  "     . 

"  To  bear  what  is,  to  be  resigned  " 

"Why  should  man  struggle  early,  late" 

"  Old  Bishop  Ivo  met  one  day" 


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397 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


"  The  carver  thought,  the  carver  wrought  "  . 

"  There  was  of  old  a  Moslem  saint " 

"  Said  Ibn  Abi  Wakkoo,  whose  strong  bow  " 

•'  There  came  to  Nushervan,  surnamed  the  Just  ' 

"  Let  me  a  simple  tale  repeat  "     . 

•'  He  needs  a  guide  no  longer  " 

"  How  many,  many  centuries  "     , 

*'  Walking  along  the  shore  one  morn  " 

"  Shall  we,  O  Master,  Ke  Loo  said" 

Thomas  Moore        .... 

Salve,  Regina       .... 

Dies  Natalis  Christi 

The  Masque  of  the  Three  Kings  . 

A  Christmas  Carol 

A  Wedding  under  the  Directory  . 

Two  Kings      ..... 

To  the  Memory  of  Keats     . 
Abraham  Lincoln    .... 

The  Victories  of  Peace 

History  ...... 

Guests  of  the  State 

The  Pearl  of  the  Philippines    . 

Wratislaw   ..... 

The  Dead  Master   .... 

Hymn  to  the  Sea 


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494 


EARLY   POEMS. 


THE   CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR. 
I. 

We  have  two  lives  about  us. 

Two  worlds  in  which  we  dwell. 

Within  us,  and  without  us, 

Alternate  Heaven  and  Hell ; 

Without  the  sombre  Real, 
Within  our  heart  of  hearts  the  beautiful  Ideal. 
I  stand  between  the  portals  of  the  two, 
Fettered,  at  birth,  with  many  a  heavy  chain. 
Whose  links  I  strive  to  sunder,  but  in  vain. 
So  strong  the  False  that  holds  me  from  the  True  : 
Only  in  dreams  my  spirit  wanders  o'er 
The  golden  threshold  of  that  world  of  bliss. 
And  lives  the  life  which  Fate  denies  in  this, 
Which  may  have  once  been  mine,  but  will  be — nevermore  ! 


My  Castle  stands  alone, 

In  some  delicious  clime, 

Away  from  Earth  and  Time, 

In  Fancy's  tropic  zone, 

Beneath  its  summer  skies. 
Where  all  the  life-long  year  the  Summer  never  dies. 
A  stately  marble  pile,  whose  pillars  rise 
From  deep- set  bases  fluted  to  the  dome. 


EARLY    POEMS. 

With  wreathed  friezes  crowned,  and  rare  device 

Of  carven  leaves,  like  ragged  rims  of  foam. 

The  spacious  windows  front  the  rising  sun, 

And  when  its  splendor  smites  them,  many-paned, 

Tri-arched,  and  richly  stained, 

A  thousand  mornings  brighten  there  as  one. 

Before  the  Castle  lies  a  shaven  lawn, 

Sloping  and  shining  in  the  dews  of  dawn, 

With  turfy  terraces,  and  garden  bovvers, 

Where  rows  of  slender  urns  are  full  of  flowers. 

Oaks  overarch  the  winding  avenues, 

Edged  round  with  evergreens  of  fadeless  bloom, 

And  pour  a  flood  of  intermingling  hues 

In  green  and  golden  gloom. 

Far-seen  through  twinkling  leaves. 

The  fountains  spout  aloft  like  silver  sheaves. 

Shaking  in  marble  basins,  pure  and  cold, 

A  drainless,  beaded  shower  of  diamond  grain, 

Which  winnows  off  in  sun-illumined  rain 

A  cloud  of  misty  gold. 

And  swans  are  floating  round  the  ruffled  tide. 

Through  beds  of  bowing  lilies,  chaste  and  white, 

Like  royal  ladies,  beauteous  in  their  pride. 

Sweeping  amid  their  maids  with  trains  of  light. 

A  herd  of  dappled  deer,  with  startled  looks. 

In  quiet  parks  within  whose  shade  t4iey  browse, 

Drink  from  the  lucid  brooks. 

Their  antlers  mirrored  with  the  tangled  boughs. 

My  rivers  flow  beyond,  with  guardant  ranks 

Of  silver-liveried  poplars  on  their  banks. 

Whereat  my  barges  ride. 

With  gilden  pennons  blown  from  side  to  side. 

Then  comes  a  dreamy  range  of  distant  bowers, 

With  rounded  hills,  and  hollow  vales  between. 

And  folded  lawns  in  everlasting  green ; 


THE   CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR. 

And,  last,  a  line  of  palaces  and  towers 
That  lessen  on  till  mountains  bar  the  view, 
Shooting  their  jagged  peaks  sublimely  up  the  blue. 


III. 

My  chambers  lie  apart, 
The  Castle's  very  heart, 
And  all  things  rich  and  rare, 
From  land,  and  sea,  and  air. 
Are  lavished,  as  in  dreams,  with  waste  profusion  there. 
The  carpeting  was  woven  in  Turkish  looms. 
From  softest  fleeces  of  Circassian  sheep, 
Tufted  like  springy  moss  in  forests  deep. 
Illuminate  with  all  their  autumn  blooms. 
The  chairs  were  carven  out  of  cedar  trees, 
Felled  on  the  lofty  peaks  of  Lebanon, 
Veined  with  the  rings  of  vanished  centuries, 
And  touched  with  frost  and  sun. 
Suspended,  silver-ringed,  on  rods  of  gold. 
The  Tyrian  curtains  capture  and  enfold 
The  summer  daylight  in  the  slumbrous  room, 
In  depths  of  purple  gloom. 
Hard  by  are  cabinets  of  curious  shells. 
From  far  Pacific  beaches,  wreathed  and  curled, 
And  some  like  moons  in  rainbow  mists  impearled, 
With  coral  boughs  from  ocean's  deepest  cells  ; 
Medallions,  coins  antique. 
Found  in  the  dust  of  cities,  Roman,  Greek : 
Clusters  of  arms,  the  spoils  of  hateful  wars, 
Sharp  scymetars  of  true  Damascus  brand. 
Short  swords,  with  basket  hilts  to  guard  the  hand, 
Chain-armor,  dinted  casques  with  visor-bars. 
Stout  jousting  lances,  battle-axes  keen, 
With  crescent  edges,  shields  with  studded  thorns, 


6  EARLY   POEMS. 

Yew  bows,  and  shafts,  and  curved  bugle  horns. 
With  tasselled  baldricks  of  the  Lincoln  green. 
And  on  the  walls  in  long  procession,  see 
The  portraits  of  my  noble  ancestry, 
Thin-featured,  stately  dames  with  powdered  locks. 
And  courtly  shepherdesses  tending  flocks, 
Stiff  lords  in  wigs  and  ruffles  white  as  snow, 
Haught  peers  and  princes  centuries  ago. 
And  dark  Sir  Richard,  bravest  of  the  line, 
With  all  the  grimly  scars  he  won  in  Palestine. 


IV. 

My  books  may  lie  and  mould, 

However  rare  and  old ; 

I  cannot  read  to-day. 

Away  with  books — away  ! 

Full-fed  with  sweets  of  sense, 
I  sink  upon  my  couch  in  honeyed  indolence. 

Here  are  rich  salvers  heaped  with  nectarines, 

Blue-misted  plums,  and  clusters  fresh  from  vines  ; 

And  here  are  drinking  cups,  and  long-necked  flasks 

In  wicker  mail,  and  bottles  broached  from  casks 

In  cellars  delv&d  deep,  and  winter  cold, 

Superlative  and  old. 

What  more  can  I  desire  ?     What  book  can  be 

As  dear  as  Idleness  and  Luxury  ? 

Brimming  with  Helicon  I  dash  the  cup  ; 

Why  should  I  waste  my  years  in  hoarding  up 

The  thoughts  of  eld?     Let  dust  to  dust  return; 

No  more  for  me — my  heart  is  not  an  urn. 

I  will  no  longer  sip  from  little  flasks. 

Covered  with  damp  and  mould,  when  Nature  yields 

A  riper  growth  from  later  vintage-fields  ; 

Nor  peer  at  Beauty  in  her  mortal  masks, 


THE   CASTLE   I\   THE   An<. 

When  I  at  will  may  have  them  all  withdrawn, 
And  feast  my  eyes  on  her  transfigured  face  : 
Nor  limp  in  fetters  in  a  weary  race, 
When  I  may  fly  unbound,  like  Mercury's  fawn. 
No  more  contented  with  the  sweets  of  old, 
Albeit  embalmed  in  nectar,  since  the  trees. 
The  Eden  bowers,  the  rich  Hesperides, 
Still  droop  around  my  path  with  living  fruits  of  gold. 


O  what  a  life  is  mine, 

A  life  of  ease  and  mirth, 

The  natural  life  of  Earth, 

Of  light,  and  flowers,  and  wine — 
What  more  could  I  demand — what  else  is  so  divine  ? 
When  eastern  skies,  the  sea,  the  misty  plain. 
Illumined  slowly,  dofif  their  nightly  shrouds. 
And  Heaven's  bright  archer  Morn  begins  to  rain 
His  golden  arrows  through  the  banded  clouds, 
I  rise,  and  tramp  away  the  jocund  hours, 
Knee-deep  in  dewy  grass  and  meadow  flowers. 
I  race  my  eager  grayhound  on  the  hills, 
And  climb  with  bounding  feet  the  craggy  steeps, 
Peak-lifted,  gazing  down  the  cloven  deeps 
Where  mighty  rivers  shrink  to  thready  rills. 
The  ramparts  of  the  mountains  loom  around, 
Like  splintered  fragments  of  a  ruined  world  : 
The  cliff-bound  dashing  cataracts  downward  hurled 
In  thunderous  volumes  shake  the  chasms  profound. 
The  savage  eagle  with  a  dauntless  eye 
Wheels  round  the  sun,  the  monarch  of  the  sky: 
I  pluck  his  eyrie'  in  the  ragged  wood 
Of  blasted  pines,  and  when  the  vulture  screams 
I  track  its  flight  along  the  solitude, 


8  EARLY   POEMS. 

Like  some  dark  spirit  in  the  world  of  dreams. 
When  evening  comes  I  lie  in  dreamy  rest, 
Where  lifted  casements  front  the  flaming  west, 
And  watch  the  clouds,  like  banners  wide  unfurled 
Hanging  above  the  threshold  of  the  world. 
The  flocks  are  penned,  the  fields  are  growing  dim, 
The  moon  comes  rounding  up  the  welkin's  rim. 
Glowing  through  thinnest  mist, — an  argent  shell 
Washed  from  the  caves  of  darkness  on  a  swell. 
One  after  one  the  stars  begin  to  shine 
In  drifted  beds,  like  pearls  through  shallow  brine  ; 
And  lo,  through  clouds  that  part  before  the  chase 
Of  silent  winds  a  belt  of  milky  white, 
The  Galaxy,  a  crested  surge  of  light, 
A  reef  of  worlds  along  the  sea  of  Space. 
I  hear  my  sweet  musicians  far  withdrawn 
Below  my  wreath&d  lattice,  on  the  lawn, 
With  harp,  and  lute,  and  lyre, 
And  passionate  voices  full  of  tears  and  fire, 
And  emulous  nightingales  with  rich  disdain 
Filling  the  pauses  of  the  languid  strain  : 
My  soul  is  tranced  and  bound. 
Drifting  along  the  magic  sea  of  sound, 
Driven  in  a  bark  of  bliss  from  deep  to  deep, 
And  piloted  at  last  into  the  ports  of  Sleep. 

VI. 

Nor  only  this,  though  this 
Might  seal  a  life  of  bliss, 
But  something  more  divine. 
For  which  I  used  to  pine. 
The  crown  of  worlds  above. 
The  heart  of  every  heart,  the  Soul  of  Being — Love ! 
I  bow  obedient  to  my  Lady's  sway, 


THE   CASTLE   IN   THE   AIR.  9 

The  sovereignty  that  won  my  soul  of  yore  : 
I  linger  in  her  presence  night  and  day, 
And  feel  a  heaven  around  her  evermore. 
I  sit  beside  her  couch  in  chambers  lone, 
And  oft  unbraid  and  lay  her  locks  apart  ; 
I  take  her  taper  fingers  in  my  own, 
And  press  them  to  my  lips  with  leaps  of  heart. 
Sometimes  I  kneel  to  her  with  cups  of  wine, 
With  pleading  eyes,  beseeching  her  to  taste. 
And  when  she  sips  thereof  I  clasp  her  waist. 
And  kiss  her  budding  mouth  which  answers  mine 
With  long-delaying  lips,  and  shake  her  curls, 
And  in  her  coy  despite  unloose  her  zone  of  pearls  ! 
I  live  for  Love,  for  Love  alone,  and  who 
Dare  chide  me  for  it  ?  who  dare  call  it  folly  ? 
It  is  a  holy  thing,  if  aught  is  holy, 
And  true,  if  Truth  is  true. 
Then  let  us  seize  the  hours  before  they  fly  ; 
Bright  eyes  should  answer  eyes,  red  lips  should  meet. 
And  hearts  enlocked  to  kindred  hearts  should  beat, 
Till  all  that  live  on  earth  in  love  shall  live  and  die. 


VII. 

My  dear  and  gentle  wife, 

The  Angel  of  my  life, 

Who  moves  its  deepest  springs, 

Has  folded  up  her  wings, 

And  lies  in  quiet  deep, 
Like  some  immortal  Dream  upon  the  couch  of  Sleep. 
Nor  sound  nor  stir  profanes  her  bridal  room, 
Haunted  by  Sleep  and  Silence, — happy  pair  : 
The  very  light  itself  muffled  in  gloom 
Steals  in,  and  melts  into  the  enamored  air 
Where  Love  doth  brood  and  dream,  while  Passion  dies, 
I* 


lO  EARLY   POEMS. 

Breathing  his  soul  out  in  a  mist  of  sighs. 
Lo,  where  she  Ues  behind  the  curtains  white, 
Pillowed  on  clouds  of  down,  her  golden  hair 
Braided  and  wound  around  her  forehead  fair, 
Like  a  celestial  diadem  of  light. 
Her  sweet,  voluptuous  lips  are  drawn  apart, 
As  if  to  grant  the  kiss  so  late  denied  : 
Her  snowy  breast — its  covering  brushed  aside- 
Betrays  the  slow  pulsation  of  her  heart. 
The  rosy  hand,  that  from  my  fingers  slid. 
Beneath  the  sheets  is  hid, 
(Ah,  happy  sheets,  to  hide  a  hand  so  sweet !) 
Nor  all  concealed  amid  their  folds  of  snow 
The  soft  perfection  of  her  shape  below. 
Rounded,  and  tapering  to  her  little  feet. 

0  Love,  if  Beauty  ever  left  her  sphere, 
And  sovereign  sisters.  Art  and  Poesy, 
Moulded  in  loveliness  she  slumbers  here. 
Incarnate,  dear,  in  thee  ! 

It  is  thy  smile  that  makes  the  chamber  still, 
It  is  thy  breath  that  fills  the  odorous  air  ; 
The  light  around  is  borrowed  from  thy  hair. 
And  all  things  else  are  subject  to  thy  will : 
And  I  am  so  bewildered  by  this  deep 
Ambrosial  calm,  and  drowsy  atmosphere, 

1  know  not  whether  I  am  dreaming  here, 

Or  in  the  world  of  Sleep. 


vin. 

My  eyes  are  full  of  tears, 
My  heart  is  full  of  pain, 
To  wake,  as  now,  again, 
And  walk,  as  in  my  youth,  the  wilderness  of  Years. 
No  more,  no  more,  the  autumn  winds  are  loud 


HYMN   TO   FLORA.  II 

In  stormy  passes,  howling  to  the  Night ; 
Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  doth  veil  her  light, 
And  the  rain  pours  from  out  the  horned  cloud  : 
And  hark,  the  solemn  and  mysterious  bell. 
Swinging  its  brazen  echoes  o'er  the  wave: 
Not  mortal  hands,  but  spirits  ring  the  knell, 
And  toll  the  parting  ghost  of  Midnight  to  its  grave. 


HYMN   TO   FLORA. 

Come,  all  ye  virgins  fair,  in  kirtles  white, 

Ye  debonair  and  merry-hearted  maids. 
Who  have  been  out  in  troops  before  the  light. 

And  gathered  blossoms  in  the  dewy  shades. 
The  shrine  is  wreathed  with  leaves,  the  holy  urns 

Brimming  with  morning  dew  are  laid  thereby ; 
The  censers  swing,  the  odorous  incense  burns. 

And  floats  in  misty  volumes  up  the  sky. 
Lay  down  your  garlands,  and  your  baskets  trim, 
Heaped  up  with  floral  offerings  to  the  brim, 
And  knit  your  snowy  hands,  and  trip  away 
With  light  and  nimble  feet, 
To  music  soft  and  sweet. 
And  celebrate  the  joyous  break  of  day, 
And  sing  a  hymn  to  Flora,  Queen  of  May. 

O  Flora  !    sweetest  Flora,  Goddess  bright, 
Impersonation  of  selectest  things, 
The  soul  and  spirit  of  a  thousand  Springs, 

Bodied  in  all  their  loveliness  and  light, 

A  delicate  creation  of  the  mind, 

Fashioned  in  its  divinest,  daintiest  mould, 
In  the  bright  Age  of  Gold, 


12  EARLY   POEMS. 

Before  the  world  was  wholly  lost  and  blind, 
But  saw  and  entertained  with  thankful  heart 

The  gods  as  guests — O  Flora  !    Goddess  dear, 
Immaculate,  immortal  as  thou  art, 

Thou  wert  a  maiden  once,  like  any  here. 
Yes,  thou  didst  tend  thy  flowers  with  proper  care, 
And  shield  them  from  the  sun,  and  chilly  air, 
Wetting  thy  little  sandals  through  and  through. 
As  is  the  wont  of  maids,  in  morning  dew. 
Roving  among  the  urns,  and  mossy  pots. 
About  the  hedges,  and  the  garden  plots. 
Straightening  and  binding  up  the  drooping  stalks 
That  kissed  thy  sweeping  garments  in  the  walks. 
Setting  thy  dibble  deep,  and  sowing  seeds, 
And  careful-handed  plucking  out  the  weeds, 
Not  more  divine  than  we  this  vernal  morn. 

Till  Zephyrus  saw  thee  in  the  dews  of  May  ; 

Flying  behind  the  chariot  of  the  Day, 
With  love  and  grief  forlorn. 

Sighing  amid  the  winged,  laughing  Hours, 
Pining  for  something  bright  which  haunted  him, 
Sleeping  on  beds  of  flowers  in  arbors  dim, 
Breaking  his  tender  heart  with  love  extreme. 

He  saw  thee  on  the  earth  amid  thy  flowers, 
The  Spirit  of  his  Dream. 
Entranced  with  passionate  love  he  called  the  Air, 

And  melting  softly  in  the  sunny  South, 
Twined  his  invisible  fingers  in  thy  hair, 

And,  stooping,  kissed  thee  with  his  odorous  mouth, 
And  chased  thee,  flying  through  thy  garden  shades, 
And  wooed,  as  men  are  wont  to  woo  the  maids. 
And  won  at  last,  and  then  flew  back  to  Heaven, 
Pleading  with  Jove,  till  his  consent  was  given. 
And  thou  wert  made  immortal, — happy  day, 
The  Goddess  of  the  flowers,  the  Queen  of  May. 


HYMN   TO   FLORA.  13 

Happier  than  we,  thy  flowers  are  not  like  ours, 
For  thou  hast  asphodels,  unfading  flowers, 
Where  thou  dost  lie,  and  dream  the  hours  away. 
Lulled  by  the  drowsy  sound    ' 
Of  trees  around, 
And  springs  that  fall  in  basins  full  of  spray. 

Sweet  are  thy  duties  there, 
In  those  bright  regions  of  serener  air. 
Sometimes  to  wreathe  imperial  Juno's  tresses, 

That  cluster  round  her  brow  like  beams  of  light ; 

Or  Cytherea's,  with  bosom  bare  and  white, 
Melting  to  meet  Adonis's  caresses. 
When  he  lies  in  his  death-sleep,  stark  and  cold  ; 

And  oft  with  Hebe  and  with  Ganymede 

Stooping  in  dews,  a  task  by  Jove  decreed. 
Entwining  chaplets  round  their  cups  of  gold  ; 
And  round  the  necks  of  Dian's  spotted  fawns, 
Like  strings  of  bells,  and  Leda's  linked  swans. 
That  float  and  sing  in  Heaven's  unwrinkled  streams. 

Like  thoughts  in  poets'  dreams. 
And  when  red  Mars,  victorious  from  the  field. 
Throws  down  his  glittering  spear  and  dinted  shield, 
Thou  dost  a-sly  with  flowery  fetters  bind  him. 

And  tie  his  arms  behind  him. 
Smoothing  with  playful  hands  his  furrowed  cheek, 

Until,  beguiled  and  meek, 
He  kisses  thee,  and  laughs  with  joy  aloud. 
And  when  Minerva,  lost  in  Wisdom's  cloud, 
Muses  abstracted  in  profoundest  nooks. 

Thou  dost  unclasp  her  books, 
And  press  the  leaves  of  flowers  within  their  leaves  ; 
And  thou  dost  bind  the  same  in  Ceres'  sheaves, 
And  wreathe  Apollo's  lyre,  and  Hermes'  rod, 
And,  venturing  near  the  cloud-compelling  God, 
Sitting  with  thought-concentred  brows  alone, 


14  EARLY   POEMS. 

Bestrew  the  starry  footstool  of  his  throne. 
Or,  drowsing  gloomy  Pluto,  stern  and  pale. 

With  slumberous  poppies  plucked  in  Lethe's  bowers, 

Thou  givest  to  Proserpine  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
Such  as  she  dropped  in  Enna's  bloomy  vale, 
That  solemn  morn  in  May 
When  she  was  stolen  away  ; 
And,  pressing  it  to  her  white  lips  in  fear. 
She  kisses  thee  for  that  remembrance  dear, 
And  then  ye  weep  together.     Softened  so, 

When  Cytherea  knelt  down,  and  plead  with  thee, 
And  Death  was  drugged,  she  let  Adonis  go  ; 

And  so  gave  Orpheus  Eurydice. 
But  ere  the  darkness  fades  thou  dost  up-soar. 
And  walk  the  Olympian  palaces  once  more. 
And  when  young  Hesper  folds  the  morning  star, 

And  harnesses  the  winged  steeds  of  Light, 
And  flushed  Aurora  urges  on  her  car, 

Chasing  the  sullen  shjidows  of  the  Night, 
Thou  dost  with  Zephyrus  fly  in  pomp  behind, 
Shaking  thy  scarf  of  rainbows  on  the  wind  ; 
And  when  the  Orient  is  reached  at  last. 
Thou  dost  unbar  its  gate 
Of  golden  state. 
And  wait  till  she  and  all  her  train  have  passed, 
And  soar  again  far  up  the  dappled  blue. 
To  wet  the  laughing  Earth  with  fresher  dew, 
As  now  thou  dost,  in  pomp  and  triumph  gay. 

This  happy,  happy  day, 
Thy  festival,  divinest  (2ueen  of  May. 

O  Flora !    heavenly  Flora,  hear  us  now, 

Gathered  to  worship  thee  in  shady  bowers  ; 

Accept  the  simple  gift,  the  tuneful  vow 

We  offer  thee,  that  thou  hast  spared  the  flowers. 


HYMN   TO   FLORA.  1 5 

The  Spring  has  been  a  cold,  belated  one, 
Dark  clouds,  and  showers,  and  a  little  sun, 
And  in  the  nipping  mornings  hoary  frost  ; 
We  hoped,  but  feared  the  tender  seeds  were  lost  : 
But,  thanks  to  thee,  they  soon  began  to  grow. 

Pushing  their  slender  shoots  above  the  ground, 

In  cultured  gardens  trim  ;  and  some  were  found 
Beside  the  edges  of  the  banks  of  snow, 

Heedless,  and  gay,  and  bold, 
Like  children  laughing  o'er  a  father's  mould. 
The  sward  to-day  is  full,  and  swells  with  more  ; 
Earth  never  was  so  bounteous  before. 
Here  are  red  roses  throwing  back  their  hoods, 

Like  willing  maids,  to  greet  the  kissing  wind  ; 
And  here  are  violets  from  sombre  woods. 

With  tears  of  dew  within  their  lids  enshrined  ; 
Lilies  like  little  maids  in  bridal  white. 

Or  in  their  burial-garments,  if  you  will  ; 

And  here  is  that  bold  flower,  the  daffodil, 
That  peers  i'  th'  front  of  March  ;  and  daisies  bright, 
The  vestals  of  the  morn  that  love  its  breeze  ; 
Snowdrops  like  specks  of  foam  on  stormy  seas, 
And  yellow  buttercups  that  gem   the  fields. 
Like  studs  of  richest  gold  on  massive  shields ; 
Anemones,  that  sprung  in  golden  years, 

(The  story  goes  they  were  not  seen  before,) 

Where  young  Adonis,  wounded  by  the  boar, 
Bled  life  away,  and  Venus  rained  her  tears  ; 
(Look,  in  their  hearts,  a  small  ensanguined  spot !) 

Here  is  forget-me-not  ; 
And  prim  Narcissus,  vain  and  foolish  elf. 
Enamored  (would  you  think  it  ?)  of  himself, 
Looking  for  ever  in  the  brook,  his  glass  ; 
And  drooping  Hyacinthus,  slain,  alas  ! 
By  rudest  Auster,  blowing  in'*the  stead 


l6  EARLY   POEMS. 

Of  Zephyrus,  then  in  Love's  bright  meshes  bound  ; 

Pitching  with  bright  Apollo  in  his  ground, 
He  blew  the  discus  back,  and  struck  him  dead. 
Pied  wind-flowers,  oxlips,  and  the  jessamine, 
The  sleepy  poppy,  and  the  eglantine ; 
Primroses,  Dian's  flowers  that  ope  at  night, 

Also  that  little  sun  the  marigold, 
And  fringed  pinks,  and  water-lilies  white. 

Like  floating  naiads  from  the  rivers  cold ; 
Carnations,  gilliflowers,  and  savory  rue. 
And  rosemary  that  loveth  tears  for  dew. 
With  other  nameless  flowers,  and  pleasant  weeds 
That  grow  untended  in  the  marshy  meads 
"Where  flags  shoot  up,  and  ragged  grasses  wave 
Perennial,  when  Autumn  seeks  her  grave 
Among  the  withered  leaves,  and  breezes  blow, 
And  Winter  weaves  a  winding-sheet  of  snow. 
Flowers,  O,  what  loveliness  there  is  in  flowers  ! 

What  food  for  thoughts  and  fancies  rich  and  new ! 
What  shall  we  liken  them  to, 
In  this  broad  world  of  ours  ? 
Mosaics  scattered  o'er 
Creation's  palace-floor  ; 
Or  Beauty's  dials  marking  with  their  leaves 
The  pomp  and  flight  of  golden  morns  and  eves  ; 
Illuminate  missals  open  on  the  meads, 
Bending  with  rosaries  of  dewy  beads  ; 
Or  characters  inscribed  on  Nature's  scrolls  ; 

Or  sweet  thoughts  from  the  heart  of  Mother  Earth  ; 
Or  wind  rocked  cradles,  where  the  bees  in  rolls 

Of  odorous  leaves  ore  wont  to  lie  in  mirth, 
Full-hearted,  murmuring  the  hours  away, 
Like  little  children  at  their  summer  play  ; 
Or  cups  and  beakers  of  the  butterflies 

Brimming  with  nectar  ;  or  a  string  of  bells, 


HYMN   TO    FLORA.  ly 

Tolling,  unheard,  a  requiem  for  the  Hours  ; 
Or  censers  swinging  incense  to  the  skies  ; 
Pavilions,  tents,  and  towers, 
The  little  fortresses  of  insect  powers 
Who  wind  their  horns  within  ;  or  magic  cells 
Where  happy  fairies  dream  the  time  away. 
Night  elfins  slumbering  all  the  summer  day, 
Sweet  nurslings  thou  art  wont  to  feed  with  dew 
From  silver  urns,  replenished  in  the  blue  ! 
But  this  is  idlesse  all,  away,  away! 

White-handed  maids,  and  scatter  buds  around  : 
And  let  the  lutes  awake,  and  tabors  sound, 
And  every  heart  its  just  devotion  pay. 
Once  more  we  thank  thee,  Flora,  and  once  more 
Perform  our  rites  as  we  are  wont  to  do ; 
O,  smile  upon  us,  Goddess  fair  and  true, 
And  watch  the  flowers  till  summer's  reign  is  o'er  ; 
Preserve  the  seeds  we  sow  in  winter-time 
From  burrowing  moles,  and  blight,  and  icy  rime, 
And  in  their  season  cause  the  shoots  to  rise, 
And  make  the  dainty  buds  unseal  their  eyes  ; 
And  we  will  pluck  the  rarest,  and  entwine 
Chaplets,  and  lay  them  on  thy  rural  shrine. 
And  sing  our  choral  hymns,  melodious,  sweet, 

And  dance  with  nimble  feet. 
And  worship  thee,  as  now,  serene  and  gay, 
The  joy  of  all  the  world,  the  merry  Queen  of  May  ! 


EARLY   POEMS. 


ODE. 


Pale  in  her  fading  bowers  the  Summer  stands, 
Like  a  new  Niobe  with  clasped  hands, 
Silent  above  the  flowers,  her  children  lost. 
Slain  by  the  arrows  of  the  early  frost. 
The  clouded  Heaven  above  is  pale  and  gray, 

The  misty  Earth  below  is  wan  and  drear, 
The  baying  Winds  chase  all  the  leaves  away, 

As  cruel  hounds  pursue  the  trembling  deer  ; 
It  is  a  solemn  time,  the  Sunset  of  the  Year. 

If  I  should  perish  with  it  none  would  miss 
An  idle  dreamer  in  a  world  like  this. 
Whate'er  our  beauty,  worth,  or  loving  powers, 

We  live,  we  strive,  we  die,  and  are  forgot  ; 
W'e  are  no  more  regarded  than  the  flowers. 

Short  life,  and  long,  long  darkness  is  our  lot. 
One  bud  from  off  the  tree  of  Life  is  naught. 
One  fruit  from  off  the  ripening  bough  of  Thought  ; 
The  hinds  will  not  lament,  in  harvest-time. 
The  bud,  the  fruit  that  fell  and  wasted  in  its  prime. 

Away  with  Action,  and  Laborious  Life, 
They  were  not  made  for  man. 
In  Nature's  plan. 
For  man  was  made    or  quiet,  not  for  strife. 
The  pearl  is  shaped  serenely  in  its  shell 

In  the  still  waters  of  the  ocean  deep  ; 
The  buried  seed  begins  to  pulp  and  swell 

In  Earth's  warm  bosom  in  profoundest  sleep. 
And,  sweeter  far  than  all,  the  bridal  rose 
Flushes  to  fulness  in  a  soft  repose. 


ODE.  19 

Let  others  gather  honey  in  the  world, 
And  hoard  it  in  their  cells  until  they  die  ; 

I  am  content  to  lie, 

Sipping,  in  summer  hours. 

My  wants  from  fading  flowers. 
An  Epicurean  till  my  wings  are  furled  ! 

What  happy  hours,  what  happy,  happy  days 

Were  mine  when  I  was  young,  a  careless  boy, 

Oblivious  of  the  world,  its  woe  or  joy, 
I  lived  for  Song,  and  dreamed  of  budding  bays. 
I  thought  when  I  was  dead,  if  not  before, 

(I  hoped  before,)  to  have  a  noble  name, 
To  leave  my  eager  footprints  on  the  shore. 

To  rear  my  statue  in  the  halls  of  Fame. 
I  pondered  over  Poets  dead  of  old, 

Their  memories  living  in  the  minds  of  men  ; 
1  knew  they  were  but  men  of  mortal  mould. 

They  won  their  crowns,  and  I  might  win  again. 
I  drank  delicious  vintage  from  their  pages, 
Flasks  of  Parnassian  nectar,  stored  for  ages  ; 
My  soul  was  flushed  within  me,  maddened,  fired, 
I  leaped  impassioned,  like  a  seer  inspired. 
I  lived  and  would  have  died  for  Poesy, 

In  youth's  divine  emotion  : 

A  stream  that  sought  its  Ocean, 
A  Time  that  longed  to  be 
Engulfed  and  swallowed  in  Eternity. 

0  Poesy  !  my  spirit's  crownM  Queen, 

1  would  that  thou  couldst  in  the  flesh  be  seen, 
The  shape  of  light  and  loveliness  thou  art 
Enshrined  within  the  chambers  of  my  heart. 

I  would  build  thee  a  palace,  richer  far 
Than  princely  Aladeen's  renowned  of  old, 


20  EARLY   POEMS. 

With  walls  and  columns  all  of  massy  gold, 
And  every  gem  incrusting  it  a  star. 
Thy  coffers  should  overflow,  and  mock  the  Ind, 

Whose  boasted  wealth  would  dwindle  down  to  naught, 

The  rich-ored  driftings  of  the  streams  of  Thought, 
Washed  lucidly  from  cloven  peaks  of  Mind. 
And  I  would  bring  to  thee  the  daintiest  things 
That  grow  beneath  the  summer  of  thy  wings  ; 
Wine  from  the  glorious  vineyards  of  the  Greek, 

Brimming  in  cups  antique  ; 
The  luscious  fruitage  of  enchanted  trees, 

From  magic  orchard  plots  with  charmed  gates  ; 
And  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides, 

Stolen  by  Fancy  from  the  watchful  Fates. 
And  I  would  hang  around  thee  day  and  night. 

Nor  ever  heed  or  know  the  night  from  day  : 
If  Time  had  wings  I  should  not  see  his  flight, 
-    Or  feel  his  shadow  in  my  sunny  way. 
Forgetful  of  the  world,  I'd  stand  apart, 

And  gaze  on  thee  unseen,  and  touch  my  lute, 
A  perfect  type  and  image  of  my  heart. 

Whose  trembling  chords  will  never  more  be  mute  ; 
And  Joy  and  Grief  would  mingle  in  my  theme, 
A  swan  and  shadow  floating  down  the  stream. 
And  when,  forgetful  of  thy  heavenly  birth. 
It  pleases  thee  to  walk  the  common  earth, 
In  brave  array  I  marshal  thee  around, 

With  pomp  and  music  sweet, 
And  spread  my  shining  mantle  on  the  ground, 
For  fear  the  dust  should  soil  thy  golden-sandalled  feet. 

Away,  away  !     The  days  are  dim  and  cold, 
The  withered  flowers  are  crumbling  in  the  mould  ; 
The  Heaven  is  gray  and  blank,  the  Earth  is  drear, 
And  fallen  leaves  are  heaped  on  Summer's  bier, 


LEONATUS.  21 

Sweet  songs  are  out  of  place,  however  sweet, 

When  all  things  else  are  wrapt  in  funeral  gloom  ; 

True  Poets  never  pipe  to  dancing  feet, 
But  only  elegies  around  a  tomb. 

Away  with  fancy  now !     The  Year  demands 
A  sterner  chaplet,  and  a  deeper  lay  ; 

A  wreath  of  cypress  woven  with  pious  hands, 
A  dirge  for  its  decay ! 


LEONATUS. 

The  fair  boy  Leonatjis, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

It  was  his  duty  evermore 
To  tend  the  Lady  Imogen  ; 
By  peep  of  day  he  might  be  seen 

Tapping  against  her  chamber  door, 
To  wake  the  sleepy  waiting-maid, 
Who  rose,  and  when  she  had  arrayed 
The  Princess,  and  the  twain  had  prayed, 

(With  pearled  rosaries  used  of  yore,) 
They  called  him,  pacing  to  and  fro. 
And,  cap  in  hand,  and  bowing  low, 
He  entered,  and  began  to  feed 
The  singing  birds  with  fruit  and  seed. 

The  brave  boy  Leonattcs, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
He  tripped  along  the  kingly  hall, 
From    room  to  room,  with  messages; 
He  stopped  the  butler,  clutched  his  keys, 
(Albeit  he  was  broad  and  tall,) 

And  dragged  him  down  the  vaults,  where  wine 


22  EARLY   POEMS. 

In  bins  lay  beaded  and  divine. 
To  pick  a  flask  of  vintage  fine  ; 
Came  up,  and  clomb  the  garden  wall, 
And  plucked  from  out  the  sunny  spots 
Peaches  and  luscious  apricots, 
And  filled  his  golden  salver  there, 
And  hurried  to  his  Lady  fair. 

The  strange  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

Sometimes  he  used  to  stand  for  hours 
Within  her  room,  behind  her  chair; 
The  soft  wind  blew  his  golden  hair 

Across  his  eyes,  and  bees  from  flowers 
Hummed  round  him,  but  he  did  not  stir  : 
He  fixed  his  earnest  eyes  on  her, 
A  pure  and  reverent  worshipper, 

A  dreamer  building  airy  towers. 

But  when  she  spoke  he  gave  a  start, 
That  sent  the  warm  blood  from  his  heart 
To  flush  his  checks,  and  every  word 
The  fountain  of  his  feelings  stirred. 

The  sad  boy  Leonattis, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 

He  lost  all  relish  and  delight 

For  all  things  that  did  please  before ; 
By  day  he  wished  the  day  was  o'er, 

By  night  he  wished  the  same  of  night  : 
He  could  not  mingle  in  the  crowd, 
He  loved  to  be  alone,  and  shroud 
His  tender  thoughts,  and  sigh  aloud, 

And  cherish  in  his  heart  its  blight. 
At  last  his  health  began  to  fail. 
His  fresh  and  glowing  cheeks  to  pale, 


LEONATUS.  '  23 

And  in  his  eyes  the  tears  unshed 
Did  hang  hke  dew  in  violets  dead. 

The  timid  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 
"What  ails  the  boy?"  said  Imogen, 

He  stammered,  sighed,  and  answered  "  Naught." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  then  she  thought 
What  all  his  malady  could  mean. 

It  might  be  love,  her  maid  was  fair, 

And  Leon  had  a  loving  air ; 

She  watched  them  with  a  jealous  care. 
And  played  the  spy,  but  naught  was  seen. 

And  then  she  was  aware  at  first. 

That  she,  not  knowing  it,  had  nursed 

His  memory  till  it  grew  a  part. 

Another  heart  within  her  heart ! 

The  dear  boy  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Itnogen. 

She  loved,  but  owned  it  not  as  yet- 
When  he  was  absent  she  was  lone, 
She  felt  a  void  before  unknown. 

But  Leon  filled  it  when  they  met. 
She  called  him  twenty  times  a  day, 
She  knew  not  why,  she  could  not  say ; 
She  fretted  when  he  went  away. 

And  lived  in  sorrow  and  regret. 
Sometimes  she  frowned  with  stately  mien. 
And  chid  him  like  a  little  queen  ; 
And  then  she.  soothed  him  meek  and  mild, 
And  grew  as  trustful  as  a  child. 

The  neat  scribe  Leonatus, 
The  page  of  Imogen. 


24  EARLY   POEMS. 

She  wondered  that  he  did  not  speak, 
And  own  his  love,  if  love  indeed 
It  was  that  made  his  spirit  bleed ; 

And  she  bethought  her  of  a  freak 
To  test  the  lad  ;  she  bade  him  write 
A  letter  that  a  maiden  might, 
A  billet  to  her  heart's  delight. 

He  took  the  pen  with  fingers  weak. 
Unknowing  what  he  did,  and  wrote, 
And  folded  up,  and  sealed  the  note. 
She  wrote  the  superscription  sage, 
"  For  Leonatus,  Lady's  Page." 

The  happy  Leonatus, 

The  page  of  Imogen. 
The  page  of  Imogen  no  more. 

But  now  her  love,  her  lord,  her  life. 
For  she  became  his  wedded  wife. 
As  both  had  hoped  and  dreamed  before. 
He  used  to  sit  beside  her  feet, 
And  read  romances  strange  and  sweet. 
And  when  she  touched  her  lute  repeat 
Impassioned  madrigals  of  yore, 
Uplooking  in  her  face  the  while. 
Until  she  stooped  with  loving  smile. 
And  pressed  her  melting  mouth  to  his, 
That  answered  in  a  dreamy  bliss — 

The  joyful  Leonatus, 

The  Lord  of  Imogen. 


SPRING.  25 


SPRING. 

The  trumpet  winds  have  sounded  a  retreat, 
Blowing  o'er  land  and  sea  a  sullen  strain ; 
Usurping  March,  defeated,  flies  again, 

And  lays  his  trophies  at  the  Winter's  feet. 

And  lo,  where  April,  coming  in  his  turn, 

In  changeful  motleys,  half  of  light  and  shade, 
Leads  his  belated  charge,  a  dehcate  maid, 
A  nymph  with  dripping  urn. 

Hail,  hail,  thrice  hail !    thou  fairest  child  of  Time, 
With  all  thy  retinue  of  laughing  Hours, 

Thou  paragon  from  some  diviner  clime. 
Bright  niinistrant  of  its  benignest  Powers, 

Who  hath  not  caught  the  glancing  of  thy  wing. 

And  peeped  beneath  thy  mask,  delicious  Spring  ? 

Sometimes  we  see  thee  on  the  pleasant  morns 
Of  lingering  March,  with  wreathed  crook  of  gold, 
Leading  the  Ram  from  out  his  starry  fold, 

A  leash  of  light  around  his  jagged  horns. 

Sometimes  in  April,  goading  up  the  skies 

The  Bull,  whose  neck  Apollo's  silvery  flies 

Settle  upon,  a  many-twinkling  swarm; 
And  when  May  days  are  warm. 
And  drawing  to  a  close, 
And  Flora  goes 

With  Zephyr  us  from  his  palace  in  the  west, 

Thou  dost  upsnatch  the  Twins  from  cradled  rest. 
And  strain  them  to  thy  breast. 

And  haste  to  meet  the  expectant,  bright  new-comer, 
The  opulent  Queen  of  Earth,  the  gay,  voluptuous  Summer  ! 
2 


26  EARLY    POEMS. 

Unmuffled  now,  shorn  of  thy  veil  of  showers, 

Thou  tripp'st  along  the  mead  with  shining  hair 

Blown  back,  and  scarf  out-fluttering  on  the  air, 
White-handed,  strewing  the  fresh  sward  with  flowers. 
The  green  hills  lift  their  foreheads  far  away, 

But  where  thy  pathway  runs  the  sod  is  pressed 
By  fleecy  lambs,  behind  the  budding  spray. 

And  close  at  hand  the  marten  builds  his  nest. 
The  forest  waves  its  plumes,  the  hedges  blow. 

The  south  wind  scuds  along  the  meadowy  sea 
Thick-flecked  with  daisied  foam,  and  violets  grow 

Blue- eyed,  and  cowslips  star  the  bloomy  lea. 
The  snake  casts  off  his  skin  in  mossy  nooks, 

The  long-eared  rabbits  near  their  burrows  play, 
The  dormouse  wakes,  and  see,  the  noisy  rooks 

Sly  foraging  about  the  stacks  of  hay. 

What  sights,  what  sounds,  what  rustic  life  and  mirth  ! 

Housed  all  the  winter  long  from  bitter  cold. 

Huddling  in  chimney-corners,  young  and  old 
Come  forth  and  share  the  gladness  of  the  Earth. 
The  ploughmen  whistle  as  the  furrows  trail 

Behind  their  glittering  shares,  a  billowy  row  ; 
The  milkmaid  sings  a  ditty  while  her  pail 

Grows  full  and  frothy,  and  the  cattle  low. 
The  teamster  drives  his  wagon  down  the  lane. 

Flattening  a  broader  rut  in  weeds  and  sand  ; 
The  angler  fishes  in  the  shady  pool ; 

And  loitering  down  the  road,  with  cap  in  hand, 
The  truant  chases  butterflies,  in  vain. 
Heedless  of  bells  that  call  the  village  lads  to  school. 

Methinks  the  world  is  sweeter  than  of  yore. 
Sweeter  to- day,  and  more  exceeding  fair; 


AUTUMN.  27 


There  is  a  presence  never  felt  before, 
The  soul  of  inspiration  everywhere. 

Incarnate  Youth  in  every  idle  limb, 

My  vernal  days,  my  prime,  returns  anew; 

My  happy  spirit  breathes  a  silent  hymn, 
My  heart  is  full  of  dew. 


AUTUMN. 

DiviNEST  Autumn  !    who  may  paint  thee  best, 

For  ever  changeful  o'er  the  changeful  globe  ? 
Who  guess  thy  certain  crown,  thy  favorite  crest. 

The  fashion  of  thy  many-colored  robe  ? 
Sometimes  we  see  thee  stretched  upon  the  ground, 

In  fading  woods  where  acorns  patter  fast. 
Dropping  to  feed  thy  tusky  boars  around, 

Crunching  among  the  leaves  the  ripened  mast  ; 
Sometimes  at  work  where  ancient  granary-floors 

Are  open  wide,  a  thresher  stout  and  hale. 

Whitened  with  chaff  up-wafted  from  thy  flail 
While  south  winds  sweep  along  the  dusty  floors  ; 
And  sometimes  fast  asleep  at  noontide  hours. 

Pillowed  on  sheaves,  and  shaded  from  the  heat, 
With  Plenty  at  thy  feet, 
Braiding  a  coronet  of  oaten  straw  and  flowers. 

What  time  emerging  from  a  low-hung  cloud 
The  shining  chariot  of  the  Sun  was  driven 

Slope  to  its  goal,  and  Day  in  reverence  bowed 
His  burning  forehead  at  the  gate  of  Heaven, 

Thy  portly  presence  was  to  me  revealed, 

Slow  trudging  homeward  in  a  stubble-field  ; 

Around  thy  brow,   to  shade  it  froni  the  west, 
A  wisp  of  straw  entwistcd  in  a  crown  ; 


28  EARLY   POEMS. 

A  golden  wheat-sheaf,  shpping  slowly  down, 
Hugged  tight  against  thy  waist,  and  on  thy  breast. 
Linked  to  a  belt,  an  earthen  flagon  swung  ; 
Over  thy  shoulder  flung 
A  bundle  of  great  pears. 
Bell-shaped  and  streaky,  some  rich  orchard's  pride  ; 
A  heavy  bunch  of  grapes  on  either  side. 

Across  each  arm,  tugged  downward  by  the  load, 
Their  glossy  leaves  blown  off  by  wandering  airs  ; 
A  yellow-rinded  melon  in  thy  right 
In  thy  left  hand  a  sickle  caught  the  light, 
Keen  as  the  moon  which  glowed 
Along  the  fields  of  night  : 
One  moment  seen,  the  shadowy  masque  was  flown, 
And  I  was  left,  as  now,  to  meditate  alone. 

Hark,  hark,  I  hear  the  reapers  in  a  row. 

Shouting  their  harvest  ditties  blithe  and  loud, 
Cutting  the  rustled  maize,  whose  crests  are  bowed. 
And  soon  will  be  laid  low  ; 

And  down  the  pastures,  where  the  horse  goes  round 
His  ring  of  tan,  beneath  the  mossy  shed, 
And  cider-presses  work  with  creaky  din, 

I  see  great  heaps  of  apples  on  the  ground, 
And  hour  by  hour,  a  basket  on  his  head, 
The  ploughman  pour  them  in  ; 

And  where  the  squashes  stud  the  garden  vine, 
Crook-necked,  or  globy,  golden,  wagons  wait, 
Soon  to  be  urged  o'erloaded  to  the  gate 

Where  drying  apples  on  the  stages  shine. 

And  children  soon  will  go  at  eve  and  morn 

And  set  their  snares  for  quails  with  baits  of  corn  ; 

And  when  the  house-dog  snuffs  a  distant  hare 
Will  overrun  the  woods  with  noisy  glee  ; 
And  when  the  walnuts  ripen,  climb  a  tree. 


THE   WITCH  S   WHELP.  29 

And  shake  the  branches  bare. 
And  by  and  by,  when  northern  winds  are  out, 

Great  back-log  fires  will  blaze  and  roar  at  night, 
While  chairs  draw  round,  and  pleasant  tales  arc  told  : 
And  mugs  of  cider  will  be  passed  about, 
Until  the  household,  drowsy  with  delight, 
Creep  off  to  bed  a-cold ! 


THE   WITCH'S    WHELP. 

Along  the  shore  the  slimy  brine-pits  yawn, 
Covered  with  thick  green  scum  ;  the  billows  rise. 
And  fill  them  to  the  brim  with  clouded  foam, 
And  then  subside,  and  leave  the  scum  again. 
The  ribbed  sand  is  full  of  hollow  gulfs, 
Where  monsters  from  the  waters  come  and  lie. 
Great  serpents  bask  at  noon  along  the  rocks. 
To  me  no  terror ;  coil  on  coil  they  roll 
Back  to  their  holes  before  my  flying  feet. 
The  Dragon  of  the  Sea,  my  mother's  god, 
Enormous  Setebos,  comes  here  to  sleep  ; 
Him  I  molest  not ;  when  he  flaps  his  wing 
A  whirlwind  rises,  when  he  swims  the  deep 
It  threatens  to  engulf  the  trembling  isle. 

Sometimes  when  winds  do  blow,  and  clouds  are  dark, 
I  seek  the  blasted  wood  whose  barkless  trunks 
Are  bleached  with  summer  suns  ;  the  creaking  trees 
Stoop  down  to  me,  and  swing  me  right  and  left 
Through  crashing  limbs,  but  not  a  jot  care  I. 
The  thunder  breaks  above,  and  in  their  lairs 
The  panthers  roar  ;  from  out  the  stormy  clouds 
Whose  hearts  are  fire  sharp  lightnings  rain  around 
And  split  the  oaks  ;  not  faster  lizards  run 


30  EARLY    POEMS. 

Before  the  snake  up  the  slant  trunks  than  I, 
Not  faster  down,  sliding  with  hands  and  feet. 
I  stamp  upon  the  ground,  and  adders  rouse, 
Sharp-eyed,  with  poisonous  fangs  ;  beneath  the  leaves 
They  couch,  or  under  rocks,  and  roots  of  trees 
Felled  by  the  winds  ;  through  briery  undergrowth 
They  slide  with  hissing  tongues,  beneath  my  feet 
To  writhe,  or  in  my  fingers  squeezed  to  death. 

There  is  a  wild  and  solitary  pine, 
Deep  in  the  meadows  ;   all  the  island  birds 
From  far  and  near  fly  there,  and  learn  new  songs. 
Something  imprisoned  in  its  wrinkled  bark 
Wails  for  its  freedom  ;   when  the  bigger  light 
Burns  in  mid-heaven,  and  dew  elsewhere  is  dried. 
There  it  still  falls  ;  the  quivering  leaves  are  tongues. 
And  load  the  air  with  syllables  of  woe. 
One  day  I  thrust  my  spear  within  a  cleft 
No  wider  than  its  point,  and  something  shrieked, 
And  falling  cones  did  pelt  me  sharp  as  hail  : 
I  picked  the  seeds  that  grew  between  their  plates. 
And  strung  them  round  my  neck  with  sea-mew  eggs. 

Hard  by  are  swamps  and  marshes,  reedy  fens 
Knee  deep  in  water  ;  monsters  wade  therein 
Thick-set  with  plated  scales ;  sometimes  in  troops 
They  crawl  on  slippery  banks  ;  sometimes  they  lash 
The  sluggish  waves  among  themselves  at  war. 
Often  I  heave  great  rocks  from  off  the  crags, 
And  crush  their  bones  ;  often  I  push  my  spear 
Deep  in  their  drowsy  eyes,  at  which  they  howl 
And  chase  me  inland  ;  then  I  mount  their  humps 
And  prick  them  back  again,   unwieldy,  slow. 
At  night  the  wolves  are  howling  round  the  place. 
And  bats  sail  there  athwart  the  silver  light. 
Flapping  their  wings  ;  by  day  in  hollow  trees 
They  hide,  and  slink  into  the  gloom  of  dens. 


HYMN   TO   THE   BEAUTIFUL.  3 1 

Wc  live,  my  mother  Sycorax  and  I, 
In  caves  with  bloated  toads  and  crested  snakes. 
She  can  make  charms,  and  philters,  and  brew  storms, 
And  call  the  great  Sea  Dragon  from  his  deeps. 
Nothing  of  this  know  I,  nor  care  to  know. 
Give  me  the  milk  of  goats  in  gourds  or  shells, 
The  flesh  of  birds  and  fish,  berries  and  fruit, 
Nor  want  I  more,  save  all  day  long  to  lie, 
And  hear,  as  now,  the  voices  of  the  sea. 


HYMN  TO  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

My  heart  is  full  of  tenderness  and  tears, 

And  tears  are  in  my  eyes,   I  know  not  why, 
With  all  my  grief  content  to  live  for  years, 

Or  even  this  hour  to  die. 
My  youth  is  gone,  but  that  I  heed  not  now. 

My  love  is  dead,  or  worse  than  dead  can  be. 
My  friends  drop  off,  like  blossoms  from  a  bough. 

But  nothing  troubles  me, — 
Only  the  golden  flush  of  sunset  lies 
Within  my  heart  like  fire,  like  dew  within  my  eyes. 

Spirit  of  Beauty  !    whatsoe'er  thou  art, 
I  see  thy  skirt  afar,   and  feel  thy  power  ; 
It  is  thy  presence  fills  this  charmed  hour. 

And  fills  my  charmed  heart  : 
Nor  mine  alone,  but  myriads  feci  thee  now, 
That  know  not  what  they  feel,  nor  why  they  bow. 

Thou  canst  not  be  forgot, 
For  all  men  worship  thee,  and  know  it  not ;, 
Nor  men  alone,  but  babes  with  wondrous  eyes. 

New-comers  from  the  skies. 


32  EARLY   POEMS. 

We  hold  the  keys  of  Heaven  within  our  hands, 
The  heirloom  of  a  higher,  happier  state. 
And  lie  in  infancy  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Transfigured  in  the  light  that  streams  along  the  lands. 
Around  our  pillows  golden  ladders  rise, 
And  up  and  down  the  skies, 
With  winged  sandals  shod, 
The  angels  come  and  go,  the  Messengers  of  God. 
Nor,  though  they  fade  from  us,  do  they  depart — 
It  is  the  childly  heart  : 
We  walk  as  heretofore, 
Adown  their  shining  ranks,  but  see  them  nevermore. 
Heaven  is  not  gone,  but  we  are  blind  with  tears. 
Groping  our  way  along  the  downward  slope  of  Years  I 

From  earliest  infancy  my  heart  was  thine, 
With  childish  feet  I  trod  thy  temple  aisles  ; 
Not  knowing  tears,  I  worshipped  thee  with  smiles, 
Or  if  I  wept  it  was  with  joy  divine. 
By  day,  and  night,  on  land,  and  sea,  and  air, 

I  saw  thee  everywhere. 
A  voice  of  greeting  from  the  wind  was  sent. 

The  mists  enfolded  me  with  soft  white  arms. 
The  birds  did  sing  to  lap  me  in  content, 

The  rivers  wove  their  charms. 
And  every  little  daisy  in  the  grass 
Did  look  up  in  my  face,  and  smile  to  see  me  pass. 

Not  long  can  Nature  satisfy  the  mind. 

Nor  outward  fancies  feed  its  inner  flame  ; 
-     We  feel  a  growing  want  we  cannot  name. 
And  long  for  something  sweet,  but  undefined. 
The  wants  of  Beauty  other  wants  create. 
Which  overflow  on  others,  soon  or  late  ; 


HYMN   TO    THE    BEAUTIFUL.  ^^ 

For  all  that  worship  thee  must  ease  the  heart, 
By  Love,  or  Song,  or  Art. 

Divinest  Melancholy  walks  with  thee. 

And  Music  with  her  sister  Poesy  ; 

But  on  thy  breast  Love  lies,  immortal  child, 

Begot  of  thine  own  longings,  deep  and  wild  ; 

The  more  we  worship  him  the  more  we  grow 

Into  thy  perfect  image  here  below; 

For  here  below,  as  in  the  spheres  above. 

All  Love  is  Beauty,  and  all  Beauty — Love ! 

Not  from  the  things  around  us  do  we  draw 
The  love  within,  within  the  love  is  born, 
Remembered  light  of  some  forgotten  morn, 

Recovered  canons  of  eternal  law. 

The  painter's  picture,  the  rapt  poet's  song, 
The  sculptor's  statue,   never  saw  the  Day — 
Were  never  in  colors,   sounds,  or  shapes  of  clay. 

Whose  crowning  work  still  does  its  spirit  wrong. 

Hue  after  hue  divinest  pictures  grow, 
Line  after  line  immortal  songs  arise. 

And  limb  by  limb,  out-starting  stern  and  slow, 
The  statue  wakes  with  wonder  in  its  eyes  : 

And  in  the  Master's  mind 
Sound  after  sound  is  born,  and  dies  like  wind. 
That  echoes  through  a  range  of  ocean    caves, 

And  straight  is  gone  to  weave  its  spell  upon  the  waves. 
The  mystery  is  thine, 

For  thine  the  more  mysterious  human  heart, 

The  Temple  of  all  Wisdom,  Beauty's  Shrine, 
The  Oracle  of  Art  ! 

Earth  in  thine  outer  court,  and  Life  a  breath. 

Why  should  we  fear  to  die,  and  leave  the  Earth  ? 
Not  thine  alone  the  lesser  key  of  Birth, 
But  all  the  keys  of  Death. 

2* 


34  EARLY   POEMS. 

And  all  the  worlds,  with  all  that  they  contain 

Of  Life,  and  Death,  and  Time,  are  thine  alone 
The  Universe  is  girdled  with  a  chain, 

And  hung  below  the  Throne 
Where  Thou  dost  sit,  the  Univ-erse  to  bless, 
Thou  sovereign  Smile  of  God,  Eternal  Loveliness ! 


TO   A   CELEBRATED   SINGER. 

Oft  have  I  dreamed  of  music  such  as  thine, 
The  wedded  melody  of  lute  and  voice, 
Immortal  strains  that  made  my  soul  rejoice, 

And  woke  its  inner  harmonies  divine. 

And  where  Sicilia  smooths  the  ruffled  seas. 
And  Enna  hollows  all  its  purple  vales, 
Thrice  have  I  heard  the  noble  nightingales, 

All  night  entranced  beneath  the  bloomy  trees. 

But  music,  nightingales,  and  all  that  Thought 
Conceives  of  song  are  naught 

To  thy  rich  voice,  which  echoes  in  my  brain. 
And  fills  my  longing  heart  with  a  melodious  pain ! 

A  thousand  lamps  were  lit,  I  saw  them  not, 
Nor  saw  the  thousands  round  me  like  a  sea ; 

All  things,  all  thoughts,  all  passions  were  forgot- 
I  only  thought  of  thee  ! 

Meanwhile  the  music  rose  sublime  and  strong. 
But  sunk  beneath  thy  voice,  which  rose  alone, 
Above  its  crumbled  fragments  to  thy  throne. 
Above  the  clouds  of  Song. 

Henceforth  let  Music  seal  her  lips,  and  be 

The  silent  ministrant  of  Poesy. 

For  not  the  delicate  reed  that  Pan  did  play 


TO    A    CELEBRATED   SINGER.  35 

To  partial  Midas,  at  the  match  of  old, 
Nor  yet  Apollo's  lyre  with  chords  of  gold, 
That  more  than  won  the  crown  he  lost  that  day, 
Nor  even  the  Orphean  lute,  that  half  set  (rec 
(O,  why  not  all  !)  the  lost  Eurydice, 

Were  fit  to  join  with  thee  ; 
Much  less  our  instruments  of  meaner  sound. 
That  track  thee  slowly  o'er  enchanted  ground, 
Unfit  to  lift  the  train  thy  music  leaves, 

Or  glean  around  its  sheaves. 

I  strive  to  disentangle  in  my  mind 

Thy  many-knotted  threads  of  softest  song, 
Whose  memory  haunts  me  like  a  voiceless  wind 

Whose  silence  does  it  wrong. 
No  single  tone  thereof,  no  perfect  sound, 
Lingers,  but  dim  remembrance  of  the  whole, 
A  sound  which  was  a  Soul, 
The  Soul  of  Sound  diffused,  an  atmosphere  around  : 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  so  mellow,  rich,  and  deep, 
So  like  a  heavenly  soul's  ambrosial  breath, 
It  would  not  wake,  but  only  deepen  Sleep 
Into  diviner  Death  ! 
Softer  and  sweeter  than  the  jealous  flute, 

Whose  soft,  sweet  voice  grew  harsh  before  its  own. 
It  stole  in  mockery  its  ev-ery  tone. 
And  left  it  lone  and  mute. 
It  flowed  like  liquid  pearl  through  golden  cells, 
It  jangled  like  a  string  of  golden  bells. 
It  trembled  like  a  wind  in  golden  strings. 
It  dropped  and  rolled  away  in  golden  rings  : 
Then  it  divided  and  became  a  shout, 
That  Echo  chased  about, 
However  wild  and  fleet, 
Until  it  trod  upon  its  heels  with  flying  feet. 


36  EARLY   POEMS. 

At  last  it  sank  and  sank  from  deep  to  deep, 
Below  the  thinnest  word, 
And  sank  till  naught  was  heard 
But  charmed  Silence  sighing  in  its  sleep ! 

Powerless  and  mute  beneath  thy  mighty  spell. 

My  heart  was  lost  within  itself  and  thee, 
As  when  a  pearl  is  melted  in  its  shell, 

And  sunken  in  the  sea. 
I  sank  and  sank  beneath  thy  song,  but  still 
I  thirsted  after  more  the  more  I  sank, 
A  flower  that  drooped  with  all  the  dew  it  drank, 
But  still  upheld  its  cup  for  Heaven  to  fill. 
My  inmost  soul  was  drunk  with  melody. 
Which  thou  didst  pour  around. 
To  crown  the  feast  of  sound, 
And  lift  in  light  to  all,  but  chief  to  me, 
Whose  spirit,  uncontrolled, 
Drained  all  the  fiery  wine,  and  clutched  its  cup  of  gold  ! 


ARCADIAN   IDYL. 

Walking  at  dew-fall  yester-eve  I  met 

The  shepherd  Lycidas  adown  the  vale. 

'•'  What  ho,  my  piping  wonder  !  "  I  exclaimed, 

Seeing  his  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  ground, 

Counting  the  pebbles,  lost  it  seemed  in  thought. 

"  What  cheer,  dear  Lycid  ?    Why  are  you  so  wrapt  ? 

Has  Galatea,  white-handed  maid,  been  false  ? 

Or  have  the  Muses  quite  forsaken  you  ?  " 

"  O,  no,  Theocritus,"  he  said  with  smiles, 

"  White-handed  Galatea  has  not  been  false, 

Nor  have  the  Muses  yet  forsaken  me. 


ARCADIAN   IDYL.  n 

You  know  my  friend,  the  man  I  love  so  much, 

The  Spartan  Poet,  brave  and  beautiful, 

I  have  been  crooning  over  to  myself 

A  song  about  his  singing  and  my  own." 

"  O,  let  me  hear  it,"  I  replied  with  glee, 

"Fresh  from  your  brain,  with  all  its  fire  and  faults; 

There  's  nothing  like  a  poet's  first  rude  draft. 

Go  on,  go  on,"  said  I.     And  he  began. 

"  Great  is  Apollo  with  his  golden  shell, 
The  gift  of  Hermes  in  his  infancy, 
And  great  is  Hermes'  self,  light-fingered  god  : 
But  greater  far  than  both  illustrious  Pan, 
Who  taught  the  shepherd  swains  of  Thessaly 
The  cunning  and  the  wonder  of  his  pipe. 
Hear  me,  great  Pan  !    O,  let  thy  spirit  breathe 
From  out  these  oaten  stops,  and  1  will  pile 
Three  square  stones,   altar-wise,  and  offer  up 
A  lamb  to  thee,  the  firstling  of  my  flock. 

We  love  in  others  what  we  lack  ourselves, 
And  would  be  every  thing  but  what  we  are. 
The  vine  uplifts  its  trailing  parasites. 
And  clasps  the  great  arms  of  the  stooping  oak, 
Till  both  are  wedded  with  a  thousand  rings. 
1  have  a  friend  as  different  from  myself 
As  Hercules  from  Hylas,  his  delight. 
True  Poets  both,  but  he  by  far  the  best. 
His  songs  are  full  of  nobleness  and  power. 
Magnificent  as  when  the  Ocean  chants 
White-haired  in  echoing  caverns  ;  mine  are  low 
As  Spring's  first  airs,  and  delicate  as  buds. 
He  loves  the  rugged  mountains,  stern  and  wild, 
Lifting  their  summits  in  the  blank  of  dawn 
Crested  with  surging  pines,  the  wild,  waste  seas 


38  EARLY    POEMS. 

That  urge  their  heavy  waves  on  rocky  crags. 

And  the  unmeasured  vastness  of  the  sky, 

With  all  its  stars,  intense,  and  white,  and  cold. 

But  I  am  soft  and  gentle  as  a  fawn 

That  licks  the  hand  that  feeds  it  ;    or  the  dove 

That  nestles  in  the  breast  of  Cytherea. 

My  heart  is  full  of  sweetness  like  a  rose, 

And  delicate  melodies  like  vernal  bees 

Hum  to  themselves  withm  its  folded  leaves. 

I  would  be  Pleasure's  Poet  till  I  died. 

And  die  at  last  upon  her  burning  heart. 

But  he,  selected  for  his  majesty, 

To  Wisdom  turns,  and  worships  her  afar. 

Awed  by  her  calm,  large  eyes,  and  spacious  brow. 

And  yet,  in  sooth,  his  heart  is  soft  enough 

With  all  its  strength,  enthroned  in  loveliness 

Like  Etna  looming  from  its  base  of  flowers. 

And  he  will  wed  his  love  ere  Summer  dies. 

While  I  must  live  a  pensive  bachelor, 

A  state  I  am  not  fond  of, — no,  by  Jove. 

But  never  mind  it,  I  will  still  sing  on, 

And  be  the  ablest  nightingale  I  can, 

And  he  may  be  the  eagle  if  he  will. 

I  cannot  follow  him,   I  know  right  well, 

None  half  so  well ;    but  I  will  watch  his  flight, 

And  love  him,  though  he  leave  me  for  the  stars." 

Thus  sang  the  shepherd  Lycidas  to  me. 
And  when  the  sickle  of  the  Moon  was  drawn 
From  out  its  sheaf  of  clouds,  and  Hesper  lit 
His  harvest  torch,  we  parted  for  the  night. 


THE   SOUTH.  39 


THE   SOUTH. 

Fall,  thickly  fall,  thou  winter  snow  ! 
And  keenly  blow,  thou  winter  wind ! 
Only  the  barren  North  is  yours, 

The  South  delights  a  summer  mind ; 
So  fall  and  blow, 
Both  wind  and  snow, 
My  Fancy  to  the  South  doth  go. 

Half-way  between  the  frozen  zones, 

Where  Winter  reigns  in  sullen  mirth, 
The  Summer  binds  a  golden  belt 

About  the  middle  of  the  Earth. 
The  sky  is  soft,  and  blue,  and  bright. 
With  purple  dyes  at  morn  and  night ; 
And  bright  and  blue  the  seas  which  lie 
In  perfect  rest,  and  glass  the  sky. 
And  sunny  bays  with  inland  curves 

Round  all  along  the  quiet  shore  ; 
And  stately  palms  in  pillared  ranks 
Grow  down  the  borders  of  the  banks. 

And  juts  of  land  where  bilious  roar. 
The  spicy  woods  are  full  of  birds, 

And  golden  fruits  and  crimson  flowers; 
With  wreathed  vines  on  every  bough. 

That  shed  their  grapes  in  purple  showers. 
The  emerald  meadows  roll  their  waves. 

And  bask  in  soft  and  mellow  light ; 
The  vales  are  full  of  silver  mist, 

And  all  the  folded  hills  are  bright. 
But  far  along  the  welkin's  rim 
The  purple  crags  and  peaks  are  dim  ; 


40  EARLY   POEMS. 

And  dim  the  gulfs,  and  gorges  blue, 
With  all  the  wooded  passes  deep  ; 

All  steeped  in  haze,  and  washed  in  dew, 
And  bathed  in  atmospheres  of  Sleep. 

Sometimes  the  dusky  islanders 

Lie  all  day  long  beneath  the  trees, 
And  watch  the  white  clouds  in  the  sky. 

And  birds  upon  the  azure  seas. 
Sometimes  they  wrestle  on  the  turf, 

And  chase  each  other  down  the  sands, 
And  sometimes  climb  the  bloomy  groves. 

And  pluck  the  fruit  with  idle  hands. 
And  dark-eyed  maidens  braid  their  hair 

With  starry  shells,  and  buds,  and  leaves, 
And  sing  wild  songs  in  dreamy  bowers, 

And  dance  on  dewy  eves, 
When  daylight  melts,  and  stars  are  few. 

And  west  winds  frame  a  drowsy  tune, 
Till  all  the  charmed  waters  sleep 

Beneath  a  yellow  moon. 

Here  men  may  dwell,  and  mock  at  toil, 

And  all  the  dull,  mechanic  arts  ; 
No  need  to  till  the  teeming  soil. 

With  weary  hands  and  aching  hearts. 
No  want  can  follow  folded  palms, 
For  Nature  doth  supply  her  alms 
With  sweets,  purveyors  cannot  bring 
To  grace  the  table  of  a  King  ; 
While  Summer  broods  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  breathes  in  all  the  winds. 
Until  her  presence  fills  their  hearts, 

And  moulds  their  happy  minds. 


TRIUMPHANT   MUSIC.  41 


TRIUMPHANT  MUSIC. 

Av,  give  me  music  !     Flood  the  air  with  sound ! 

But  let  it  be  superb,  and  brave,  and  high, 
Not  such  as  leaves  my  wild  ambition  bound 

In  soft  delights,  but  lifts  it  to  the  sky. 
No  sighs,  nor  tears,  but  deep,  indignant  calm. 

And  scorn  of  all  but  strength,  my  only  need  ; 

From  whence  but  Music  should   my  strength  proceed  ? 
From  some  Titanic  psalm  ? 
Some  thunderous  strand  of  sound,  which  in  its  roll 
Shall  lift  to  starry  heights  my  fiery  soul  ! 

Strike  on  the  noisy  drum,  and  let  the  fife 

Scream  like  a  tortured  soul  in  pain  intense, 
But  let  the  trumpet  brood  above  their  strife, 

Victorious  in  its  calm  magnificence. 
Nor  fear  to  wake  again  the  golden  lute. 

That  runs  along  my  quivering  nerves  like  fire  ; 

Nor  let  the  silver-chorded  lyre  be  mute. 
But  bring  the  tender  lyre, 
For  sweetness  with  all  strength  should  wedded  be, 
But  bring  the  strength,  the  sweetness  dwells  in  me  ! 

Play  on !    play  on  !     The  strain  is  fit  to  feed 

A  feast  of  Gods,  in  banquet-halls  divine  ; 
Not  one  would  taste  the  cups  of  Ganymede, 

But  only  drink  this  more  ambrosial  wine  ! 
Play  on !    play  on  1     The  secret  Soul  of  Sound 

Unfolds  itself  at  every  cunning  turn  ; 

The  trumpet  lifts  its  shield,  a  stormy  round,  ' 
The  lute  its  dewy  urn. 


42  EARLY   POEMS. 

But  in  the  lyre,  the  wild  and  passionate  lyre, 
Lies  all  its  might,  its  madness  and  desire ! 

Again  !    again  !     And  let  the  rattling  drum 

Begin  to  roll,  and  let  the  bugle  blow, 
Like  winter  winds,  when  woods  are  stark  and  dumb, 

Shouting  above  a  wilderness  of  snow. 
Pour  hail  and  lightning  from  the  fife  and  lyre. 

And  let  the  trumpet  pile  its  clouds  of  doom  ; 

But  I  o'ertop  them  with  a  darker  plume, 
And  beat  my  wings  of  fire  ; 
Not  like  a  struggling  eagle  baffled  there, 
But  like  a  Spirit  on  a  throne  of  air  ! 

In  vain !    in  vain  !     We  only  soar  to  sink, 

Though  Music  gives  us  wings,  we  sink  at  last  ; 
The  peaks  of  rapture  topple  near  the  brink 

Of  Death,  or  Madness  pallid  and  aghast. 
But  still  play  on,  you  rapt  musicians,  play  ! 

But  now  a  softer  and  serener  strain  ; 

Give  me  a  dying  fall,  that  lives  again. 
Again  to  die  away. 
Play  on !    but  softly  till  my  breath  grows  deep. 
And  Music  leaves  me  in  the  arms  of  Sleep  ! 


A  HOUSEHOLD  DIRGE. 

I'VE  lost  my  little  May  at  last. 
She  perished  in  the  spring, 

When  earliest  flowers  began  to  bud, 
And  earliest  birds  to  sing. 

I  laid  her  in  a  country  grave, 
A  green  and  still  retreat, 


A   HOUSEHOLD   DIRGE.  43 

A  marble  tablet  o'er  her  head, 
And  violets  at  her  feet. 


I  would  that  she  were  back  again, 

In  all  her  childish  bloom  ; 
My  joy  and  hope  have  followed  her, 

My  heart  is  in  her  tomb. 
I  know  that  she  is  gone  from  me, 

I  know  that  she  is  fled, 
I  miss  her  everywhere,  and  yet 

I  cannot  think  her  dead. 

I  wake  the  children  up  at  dawn. 

And  say  a  simple  prayer. 
And  draw  them  round  the  morning  meal, 

But  one  is  wanting  there. 
I  see  a  little  chair  apart, 

A  little  pinafore, 
And  Memory  fills  the  vacancy, 

As  Time  will — nevermore  ! 

I  sit  within  my  quiet  room. 

And  think  and  write  for  hours, 
And  miss  the  little  maid  again 

Among  the  window  flowers, 
And  miss  her  with  her  toys  beside 

My  desk  in  silent  play  ; 
And  then  I  turn  and  look  for  her — 

But  she  has  flown  away. 

I  drop  my  idle  pen,  and  hark. 
And  catch  the  faintest  sound  : 

She  must  be  playing  hide-and-seek 
In  shady  nooks  around  ; 


44  EARLY   POEMS. 

She'll  come  and  climb  my  chair  again, 
And  peep  my  shoulder  o'er  ; 

I  hear  a  stifled  laugh, — but  no, 
She  cometh  nevermore  ! 

I  waited  only  yester-night, 

The  evening-service  read, 
And  lingered  for  my  idol's  kiss 

Before  she  went  to  bed  ; 
Forgetting  she  had  gone  before, 

In  slumbers  soft  and  sweet, 
A  monument  above  her  head, 

And  violets  at  her  feet. 


How  are  songs  begot  and  bred  ? 
How  do  golden  measures  flow  ? 
From  the  heart,  or  from  the  head? 
Happy  Poet,  let  me  know. 

Tell  me  first  how  folded  flowers 
Bud  and  bloom  in  vernal  bovvers  ; 
How  the  south  wind  shapes  its  tune. 
The  harper,  he,  of  June. 

None  may  answer,  none  may  know, 
Winds  and  flowers  come  and  go. 
And  the  selfsame  canons  bind 
Nature  and  the  Poet's  mind. 


SILENT   SONGS.  45 


SILENT  SONGS. 

If  I  could  ever  sing  the  songs 
Within  me  day  and  night, 

The  only  fit  accompaniment 
Would  be  a  lute  of  light. 

A  thousand  dreamy  melodies, 

Begot  with  pleasant  pain, 
Like  incantations  float  around 

The  chambers  of  my  brain. 

But  when  I  strive  to  utter  one, 

It  mocks  my  feeble  art. 
And  leaves  me  silent,  with  the  thorns 

Of  Music  in  my  heart  ! 


There  's  a  new  grSve  in  the  old  churchyard. 

Another  mound  in  the  snow. 
And  a  maid  whose  soul  is  whiter  far 

Sleeps  in  her  shroud  below. 

The  winds  of  March  are  piping  loud, 
The  snow  comes  down  for  hours  ; 

But  by  and  by  the  April  rain 

Will  bring  the  sweet  May  flowers. 

The  sweet  May  flowers  will  deck  the  mound 

Greened  in  the  April  rain  ; 
But  blight  will  lie  on  our  memories. 

And  our  tears  \\'\\\  fall  in  vain. 


46  EARLY   POEMS. 


SONG. 

We  love  in  youth,  and  plight  our  vows 

To  lov^e  till  life  departs  ; 
Forgetful  of  the  flight  of  time, 

The  change  of  loving  hearts. 

To-day  departs,  to-morrow  comes, 

Nor  finds  a  weed  away  ; 
But  no  to-morrow  finds  a  man 

The  man  he  was  to-day. 

Then  weep  no  more  when  love  decays, 

For  even  hate  is  vain  ; 
Since  every  heart  that  hates  to-day, 

To-morrow  loves  again. 


SONG. 

You  know  the  old  Hidalgo, 

(His  box  is  next  to  ours.) 
Who  threw  the  Prima  Donna 

The  wreath  of  orange-flowers  : 
He  owns  the  half  of  Aragon, 

With  mines  beyond  the  main  ; 
A  very  ancient  nobleman, 

And  gentleman  of  Spain. 

They  swear  that  I  must  wed  him, 

In  spite  of  yea  or  nay, 
Though  uglier  than  the  Scaramouch, 

The  spectre  in  the  play  ; 


THE   TWO   BRIDES.  47 

But  I  will  sooner  die  a  maid 

Than  wear  a  gilded  chain, 
For  all  the  ancient  noblemen 

And  gentlemen  of  Spain ! 


SONG. 

The  walls  of  Cadiz  front  the  shore, 

And  shimmer  on  the  sea  : 
Her  merry  maids  are  beautiful, 

But  light  as  light  can  be. 

They  drop  me  billets  through  the  post, 
They  meet  me  in  the  square, 

They  even  follow  me  to  mass, 
And  lift  their  veils  at  prayer. 

But  all  their  smiles  and  wanton  arts 

Are  thrown  away  on  me  : 
My  heart  is  now  an  English  girl's, 

And  she  is  o'er  the  sea. 

My  English  love  is  o'er  the  sea. 

But  ere  a  month  is  flown, 
The  Spanish  maids  will  be  as  far, 

And  she  will  be  my  own. 


THE  TWO   BRIDES. 

I  SAW  two  maids  at  the  kirk. 
And  both  were  fair  and  sweet  : 

One  in  her  wedding  robe, 

And  one  in  her  winding-sheet. 


48  EARLY   POEMS. 

The  choristers  sang  the  hymn, 
The  sacred  rites  were  read, 

And  one  for  Hfe  to  Life, 
And  one  to  Death  was  wed. 

They  were  borne  to  their  bridal  beds, 
In  loveHness  and  bloom  ; 
V  One  in  a  merry  castle. 

And  one  in  a  solemn  tomb. 

One  on  the  morrow  woke 
In  a  world  of  sin  and  pain  ; 

But  the  other  was  happier  far, 
And  never  awoke  again. 


I  SYMPATHIZE  with  all  thy  grief, 

As  though  it  were  my  own  and  more, 
For  all  my  loving  days  are  o'er, 

While  thine  still  last,  though  dark  and  brief. 

If  any  prayer  of  mine  could  save 
The  well  belovM  from  her  fate, 
I  would  not  cease  to  storm  the  gate 

Of  Heaven  till  Mercy  shut  her  grave. 

But  prayers  on  prayers  are  all  in  vain, 
The  destiny  of  man  is  fixed, 
The  bitter  cups  of  Death  are  mixed, 

And  we  must  drink,  and  drink  again. 

All  words  are  idle  :    words  from  me — 
Are  doubly  so  :    my  soul  for  years 
Has  used  no  other  speech  than  tears  : 

But  these  I  freely  offer  thee. 


A   SERENADE.  49 


A   SERENADE. 

The  moon  is  muffled  in  a  cloud, 
That  folds  the  lover's  star, 

Bat  still  beneath  thy  balcony 
I  touch  my  soft  guitar. 

If  thou  art  waking,  Lady  dear, 

The  fairest  in  the  land, 
Unbar  thy  wreathed  lattice  now, 

And  wave  thy  snowy  hand. 

She  hears  me  not,  her  spirit  lies 
In  trances  mute  and  deep  ; 

But  Music  has  a  golden  key 
That  opes  the  gate  of  Sleep. 

Then  let  her  sleep,  and  if  J  fail 

To  set  her  spirit  free. 
My  song  will  mingle  in  her  dream, 

And  she  will  dream  of  me. 


The  yellow  Moon  looks  slantly  down. 
Through  seaward  mists,   upon  the   town  ; 
And  ghost-like  there  the  moonshine  falls 
Between  the  dim  and  shadowy  walls. 

I  see  a  crowd  in  every  street, 
But  cannot  hear  their  falling  feet  ; 
They  float  like  clouds  through  shade  and  light, 
And  seem  a  portion  of  the  Night. 
3 


50  EARLY   POEMS. 

The  ships  have  lain  for  ages  fled 
Along  the  waters,  dark  and  dead  ; 
The  dying  waters  wash  no  more 
The  long,  black  line  of  spectral  shore. 

There  is  no  life  on  land  or  sea, 
Save  in  the  quiet  Moon  and  me  ; 
Nor  ours  is  true,  but  only  seems, 
Within  some  dead  old  World  of  Dreams. 


Along  the  grassy  slope  I  sit, 

And  dream  of  other  years  ; 
My  heart  is  full  of  soft  regrets, 

My  eyes  of  tender  tears. 

The  wild  bees  hummed  about  the  spot, 
The  sheep-bells  tinkled  far, 

Last  year  when  Alice  sat  with  me. 
Beneath  the  evening  star. 

The  same  sweet  star  is  o'er  me  now, 
Around  the  same  soft  hours, 

But  Alice  moulders  in  the  dust 
With  all  the  last  year's  flowers. 

I  sit  alone,  and  only  hear 
The  wild  bees  on  the  steep. 

And  distant  bells  that  seem  to  float 
From  out  the  folds  of  Sleep.         ^ 


SONGS  OF  SUMMER. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   YOUTH. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 
There  are  balms  for  all  our  pain  : 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better. 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign  : 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet. 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain  : 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air. 
But  it  never  comes  again. 


[BRITTANY.] 

Thv  father  is 'a  King,  my  child. 
And  thou  a  Prince  by  birth ; 

But  he  has  banished  us  from  court 
To  roam  about  the  earth  : 


54  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

But  let  him  be  that  wrongeth  thee, 
For  all  the  holy  angels  see, 

Said  patient,  pale  Custance. 
["  Peace,  little  son,  I  will  do  thee  no  harin.^'' 
But  still  the  babe  lay  weeping  on  her  arm.] 

From  door  to  door  we  beg  our  bread, 

From  day  to  day  we  pine, 
While  he  doth  at  his  banquet  sit. 

And  drain  the  cups  of  wine  : 
But  let  him  be,  O,  let  him  be, 
For  God  will  care  for  you  and  me, 

Said  patient,  pale  Custance. 
['^  Peace,  little  son,  I  will  do  thee  no  harm.'''' 
But  still  the  babe  lay  weeping  on  her  arm.] 


[ANTIQUE.] 

A  FEW  frail  summers  had  touched  thee, 

As  they  touch  the  fruit ; 
Not  so  bright  as  thy  hair  the  sunshine. 

Not  so  sweet  as  thy  voice  the  lute  : 
Hushed  the  voice,  shorn  the  hair, — all  is  over, 

An  urn  of  white  ashes  remains  ; 
Nothing  else  save  the  tears  in  our  eyes, 

And  our  bitterest,  bitterest  pains. 

We  garland  the  urn  with  white  roses, 
Burn  incense  and  gums  on  the  shrine. 

Play  old  tunes  with  the  saddest  of  closes, 
Dear  tunes  that  were  thine  ; 

But  in  vain,  all  in  vain. 

Thou  art  gone — we  remain  ! 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   SVREXS.  55 


THE   SONG   OF   THE    SYRENS. 

Long  have  you  buffeted  the  winds, 

And  urged  the  weary  oar  : 
Now  you  reach  our  little  isle 
Furl  your  sail,  and  rest  awhile, 

On  the  happy  shore. 

What  is  here  that  you  should  fear  ? 
What  is  there  so  deadly  here  ? 
A  quiet  island  in  the  sea, 

Grass-fringed,  and  shadowed  deep  with  palms, 

Winds  that  winnow  summer  balms, 
Flowers  in  each  vale,  and  fruits  on  every  tree. 
We  weave  slow  dances  in  the  shade, 

With  lifted  arms  and  floating  hair  : 
Or,  when  the  golden  noon  is  come, 
List  the  wild-bee's  drowsy  hum, 

Or  watch  the  insects  in  the  air, 

Or  kiss  each  other  on  the  lips. 
And  softly  swoon  away  in  Sleep's  divine  eclipse. 

What  is  there  to  fear  in  this  ? 

Where's  the  danger  of  a  kiss  ? 

But,   if  dangerous  it  be. 
It  is  to  maids  like  us,  not  to  men  like  thee! 


[ITALY.] 

Range  yourselves,  my  merry  men, 
And  wake  your  sweetest  numbers, 

My  lady  will  forgive  the  voice 
That  melts  her  silent  slumbers  : 


56  SONGS    OF   SUMMER. 

For  ladies  listen  with  delight 
To  music  in  the  summer  night. 

Run  your  hands  across  the  strings, 

Like  the  wind  through  vernal  rains, 
Softly  :    not  of  lovers'  fears. 
Nor  their  idle  rain  of  tears — 

Sing  serener  strains  : 
Sing  the  joy,  the  happy  smart. 
In  a  little  maiden's  heart. 
That  finds  in  dreams  her  lover  dear, 
And  wakes — to  find  him  near! 


THE   SEA. 

[STORM.] 

Through  the  night,  through  the  night. 

In  the  saddest  unrest, 
Wrapt  in  white,  all  in  white. 

With  her  babe  on  her  breast, 
Walks  the  mother  so  pale. 
Staring  out  on  the  gale, 

Through  the  night. 

Through  the  night,  through  the  night, 
Where  the  sea  lifts  the  wreck, 

Land  in  sight,  close  in  sight, 
On  the  surf-flooded  deck, 

Stands  the  father  so  brave, 

Driving  on  to  his  grave. 
Through  the  night. 


THE   SPEECH   OF   LOVE.  S7 

THE   SHADOW   OF   THE    HAND. 

[ITALY.] 

You  were  very  charming,  Madam, 

In  your  silks  and  satins  fine  ; 
And  you  made  your  lovers  drunken, 

But  it  was  not  with  your  wine. 
There  were  court-gallants  in  dozens, 

There  were  princes  of  the  land, 
And  they  would  have  perished  for  you, 

As  they  knelt  and  kissed  your  hand. 
/•'or  they  saw  no  stain  'upon  it. 
It  was  such  a  snowy  hand. 

But  for  me,  I  knew  you  better, 

And,  while  you  were  flaunting  there, 
I  remembered  some  one  lying 

With  the  blood  on  his  white  hair. 
He  was  pleading  for  you,  Madam, 

Where  the  shriven  spirits  stand  ; 
But  the  Book  of  Life  was  darkened 

By  the  Shadow  of  a  Hand. 

//  was  tracing  your  perdition, 
For  the  blood  upon  your  hand ! 

THE   SPEECH    OF   LOVE. 

You  ask  me,  love,  to  sing  of  you, 

Dear  heart,  but  what  and  why? 
Songs  are  but  sweet  and  skilful  words, 
That  tinkle  unto  certain  chords, 

And  are  but  born  to  die. 


58  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Words  cannot  show  my  burning  love, 

My  passion's  secret  fire  : 
I  try  to  speak,  and  make  it  plain, 
About  my  pleasure,  and  my  pain. 
But  song  and  speech  expire. 

There  is  more  eloquence  in  looks, 

More  poesy  in  sighs, 
Than  ever  yet  in  speech  was  framed, 
Or  any  song  of  poets  famed, 

Though  lit  at  ladies'  eyes. 

Then  bid  me  sing  of  love  no  more, 

But  let  me  silent  be  ; 
For  silence  is  the  speech  of  love, 
The  music  of  the  spheres  above, 

That  suits  a  soul  like  thee. 


You  may  drink  to  your  leman  in  gold. 
In  a  great  golden  goblet  of  wine  ; 

She's  as  ripe  as  the  wine,  and  as  bold 

As  the  glare  of  the  gold  : 
But  this  little  lady  of  mine, 
I  will  not  profane  her  in  wine. 

I  go  where  the  garden  so  still  is, 
(The  moon  raining  through,) 

To  pluck  the  white  bowls  of  the  lilies, 
And  drink  her  in  dew! 


BIRDS.  59 

THE    SEA. 

[THE   LOVER.] 

You  stooped  and  picked  a  red-lipped  shell, 

Beside  the  shining  sea  : 
"This  little  shell,  when  I  am  gone, 

Will  whisper  still  of  me." 
I  kissed  your  hands,  upon  the  sands, 

For  you  were  kind  to  me. 

I  hold  the  shell  against  my  ear, 

And  hear  its  hollow  roar  : 
It  speaks  to  me  about  the  sea, 

But  speaks  of  you  no  more. 
I  pace  the  sands,  and  wring  my  hands, 

For  you  are  kind  no  more. 

BIRDS. 

Birds  are  singing  round  my  window, 

Tunes  the  sweetest  ever  heard. 
And  I  hang  my  cage  there  daily. 

But  I  never  catch  a  bird. 

So  with  thoughts  my  brain  is  peopled, 
And  they  sing  there  all  day  long  : 

But  they  will  not  fold  their  pinions 
In  the  little  cage  of  Song ! 


6o  SONGS   OF   SUMMER, 

THE   LOST   LAMB. 

[TARTAR  Y.] 

The  little  Tartar  maiden 

That  tends  my  master's  sheep — 

She  makes  a  lamb  her  pillow, 
When  she  lies  down  to  sleep. 

She  parts  her  gray  tent-curtains 
Before  the  morn  is  seen, 

And  drives  our  flocks  together, 
To  pastures  fresh  and  green. 

My  heart  goes  with  the  maiden, 
For  when  I  wake  I  find 

No  heart  within  my  bosom, 
No  happy  peace  of  mind. 

I  track  the  lost  lamb's  footsteps, 
And  find  it  fast  asleep. 

Beside  the  little  maiden 
Among  my  master's  sheep. 


The  sky  is  a  drinking-cup, 
That  was  overturned  of  old, 

And  it  pours  in  the  eyes  of  men 
Its  wine  of  airy  gold. 

We  drink  that  wine  all  day. 

Till  the  last  drop  is  drained  up. 

And  are  lighted  off  to  bed 
By  the  jewels  in  the  cup  ! 


ON   THE   PIER.  6l 


ON   THE   PIER. 

Down  at  the  end  of  the  long,  dark  street, 

Years,  years  ago, 
I  sat  with  my  sweetheart  on  the  pier. 

Watching  the  river  flow. 

The  moon  was  cUmbing  the  sky  that  night, 
White  as  the  winter's  snow  : 

We  kissed  in  its  hght,  and  swore  to  be  true- 
But  that  was  years  ago. 

Once  more  I  walk  in  the  dark,  old  street, 

Wearily  to  and  fro  : 
But  I  sit  no  more  on  the  desolate  pier 

Watching  the  river  flow. 


Spring,  they  tell  me,  comes  in  bloom. 

Flowers  already  star  the  lea  : 
But  thou  art  lying  in  thy  tomb, 
And~  there  is  no  Spring  for  me. 
Skies  are  gay 
Day  after  day, 
And  the  snow-drifts  melt  away  : 
But  there  is  no  Spring  for  me, 
Pcrdita. 

Over  thee  the  willows  wave. 

And  the  waning  moon  doth  shine  : 


62  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

But  thou  art  happy  in  thy  grave, 
And  I  would  I  were  in  mine. 
Heart  and  brain 
Are  racked  with  pain, 
For  I  seek  thy  grave  again  : 
But  I  soon  shall  rest  in  mine, 
Perdita. 


The  gray  old  Earth  goes  on 

At  its  ancient  pace, 
Lifting  its  thunder-voice 
In  the  choir  of  space  ; 
And  the  years  as  they  go 
Are  singing  slow, 
Solemn  dirges,  full  of  wo. 

Tyrants  sit  upon  their  thrones. 

And  will  not  hear  the  people's  moans. 

Nor  hear  their  clanking  chains  : 
Or  if  they  do  they  add  thereto, 

And  mock,  not  ease  their  pains. 

But  little  liberty  remains. 
There  is  but  little  room  for  thee. 
In  this  wide  world,  O  Liberty  ! 
But  where  thy  foot  has  once  been  set 

Thou  wilt  remain,  though  oft  unseen  : 
And  grow  like  thought,  and  move  like  wind, 
Upon  the  troubled  sea  of  Mind, 

No  longer  now  serene. 
Thy  life  and  strength  thou  dost  retain, 
Despite  the  cell,  the  rack,  the  pain. 
And  all  the  battles  won  in  vain  ; 


THE   DIVAN.  63 

And  even  now  thou  see'st  the  hour 
That  lays  in  dust  the  thrones  of  Power  : 
When  man  shall  once  again  be  free, 
And  Earth  renewed,  and  young  like  thee, 
O  Liberty  !     O  Liberty  ! 


There  is  no  sin  to  hearts  that  love, 

Whatever  men  may  say  ; 
For  they  are  lifted  far  above 

The  laws  of  lesser  clay. 

They  are  unto  themselves  a  law. 

No  other  law  can  bind  : 
No  other  wakes  a  moment's  awe, 

For  meaner  men  designed. 

Then  tell  me  not  'tis  love  that  parts, 
Nor  fear  the  powers  above  ; 

For  all  the  sins  of  loving  hearts 
Are  washed  away  by  love. 


THE   DIVAN. 

[PERSIA.] 

A  LITTLE  maid  of  Astrakan, 

An  idol  on  a  silk  divan  ; 

She  sits  so  still,  and  never  speaks. 

She  holds  a  cup  of  mine  ; 
'Tis  full  of  wine,  and  on  her  cheeks 

Are  stains  and  smears  of  wine. 


64  SONGS    OF   SUMMER. 

Thou  little  girl  of  Astrakan, 
I  join  thee  on  the  silk  divan  : 
There  is  no  need  to  seek  the  land, 

The  rich  bazaars  where  rubies  shine 
For  mines  are  in  that  little  hand, 

And  on  those  little  cheeks  of  thine. 


Here  I  lie,  a  tress  of  hair, 
Kissed  by  every  wandering  air. 
Wishing  you  would  kiss  me  too  : 
Why  don't  you,  oftener  than  you  do? 
Through  my  ringlets  ran  her  fingers, 

Whom  you  love  so  fond  and  true, 
And  their  sweetness  lingers,  lingers 

In  the  ringlets  still  for  you. 

Only  kiss  them  once,  and  see 
What  love  lies  embalmed  in  me  : 
Kiss  me  now,  and  it  shall  seem 
As  if  you  kissed  her  in  a  dream  ; 
Nay,  it  shall  not  seem,  but  be, 
You  shall  kiss  her,  sir,  and  she — 
She  shall  stand  before  you  there. 
Pale  and  fair. 
By  only  kissing  me,  a  little  tress  of  hair  ! 


The  sky  is  thick  upon  the  sea. 
The  sea  is  sown  with  rain. 

And  in  the  passing  gusts  we  hear 
The  clanging  of  the  crane. 


DAY   AND   NIGHT.  65 

The  cranes  are  flying  to  the  south, 

We  cut  the  northern  foam  : 
The  dreary  land  they  leave  behind 

Must  be  our  future  home. 

Its  barren  shores  are  long  and  dark, 

And  gray  its  autumn  sky  ; 
But  better  these  than  this  gray  sea, 

If  but  to  land — and  die  ! 


DAY  AND  NIGHT. 

Day  is  the  Child  of  Time, 
And  Day  must  cease  to  be  : 

But  Night  is  without  a  sire, 

And  can  not  expire. 
One  with  Eternity. 

Day  and  the  angel  Life 

Circle  the  worlds  of  air, 
With  a  speed  that  looks  not  back ; 
For  Night  is  on  their  track, 

Clutching  their  golden  hair. 

She  comes,  she  comes  again. 

In  her  dark  and  pitiless  flight ; 
The  baby  Sleep  on  her  arm  reclined. 
The  skeleton  Death  behind — 

The  Shadow  that  haunts  the  night! 


66  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 


THE  DEAD. 

I  THINK  about  the  dead  by  day, 

I  dream  of  them  at  night  : 
They  seem  to  stand  beside  my  chair, 
Clad  in  the  clothes  they  used  to  wear. 

And  by  my  bed  in  white. 

The  common-places  of  their  lives, 

The  lightest  words  they  said, 
Revive  in  me,  and  give  me  pain, 
And  make  me  wish  them  back  again. 

Or  wish  that  I  were  dead. 

I  would  be  kinder  to  them  now, 

Were  they  alive  once  more  ; 
Would  kiss  their  cheeks,  and  kiss  their  hair. 
And  love  them,  like  the  angels  there. 

Upon  the  silent  shore. 


THE  SEA. 
[maid.] 

By  the  rolling  waves  I  roam. 

And  look  along  the  sea. 
And  dream  of  the  day  and  the  gleaming  sail 

That  bore  my  love  from  me. 

His  bark  now  sails  the  Indian  seas, 

Far  down  in  the  tropic  zone  : 
But  his  thbughts  like  swallows  fly  to  me. 

By  the  northern  waves  alone. 


A   SERENADE.  6/ 

Nor  will  he  delay,  when  winds  are  fair 

To  waft  him  back  to  me  : 
But  haste,  my  love,  or  my  grave  will  be  made 

By  the  sad  and  moaning  sea. 


Many's  the  time  I've  sighed  for  summer, 

Many's  the  summer  I've  known  ; 
But  to-day  I  cling  to  the  flying  spring, 

And  fear  to  have  it  flown. 
Not  that  May  is  gay, 
P'or  the  sky  is  cold  and  gray, 

And  a  shadow  creeps  on  the  day  : 
But  the  laden  summer  will  give  me 

What  it  never  gave  before. 
Or  take  from  me  what  a  thousand 

Summers  can  give  no  more. 


A   SERENADE. 

[FRANCE.] 

There's  a  door  in  your  chamber,  lady  mine, 

I,  the  King,  have  the  key  : 
There's  a  walk  in  my  garden's  deepest  shade, 

For  you,  Sweet,  and  me. 

We  are  loyal  and  distant  by  day, 

When  the  world  is  in  sight  : 
But  at  night  we  have  hearts,  and  we  love. 

And  are  happy  at  night. 


68  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

The  lamps  have  gone  out,  lady  mine, 

All  is  still,  let  us  rise  : 
I  can  track  you  by  the  beat  of  your  heart. 

And  the  light  of  your  eyes. 

Through  the  dusk  of  the  lindens  we  glide. 

To  that  alley  of  ours  : 
And  kiss  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 

And  the  odor  of  flowers. 


The  house  is  dark  and  dreary, 

And  my  heart  is  full  of  gloom  ; 
But  out  of  doors,  in  the  summer  air. 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  fair. 
And  the  flowers  are  still  in  bloom. 

A  moment  ago  in  the  garden 

I  scattered  the  shining  dew  : 
The  wind  was  soft  in  the  swaying  trees. 
The  morning-glories  were  full  of  bees. 
And  straight  in  my  face  they  flew. 

Yet  I  left  them  unmolested, 

Draining  their  honey-wine. 
And  entered  the  weary  house  again. 
To  sit,  as  now,  by  a  bed  of  pain. 

With  a  fevered  hand  in  mine. 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   THE   BRIDAL.  69 


[ANTIQUE.] 

The  phantom  that  walks  in  the  sun, 
The  terror  that  creeps  in  the  air, 

Has  entered  the  Garden  of  Youth, 
And  vainly  we  look  for  thee  there  : 
Thy  spirit  has  vanished,  but  where  ? 

I  question  the  wind  of  the  summer. 
That  blows  o'er  the  land  and  the  sea 

It  gives  me  a  moan  for  my  moan, 
But  no  tidings  of  thee  : 

Nor  answer  the  stars  in  the  skies, 

Pining  still  for  the  light  of  thine  eyes. 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE  THE   BRIDAL. 

The  bridal  flower  you  gave  me. 
The  rose  so  pure  and  white, 

I  press  it  to  my  lips,  dear. 
With  tears  of  soft  delight. 

Its  odor  is  so  heavy 

It  makes  me  faint  and  pine  ; 

It  is  thy  kiss  that  freights  it, 
That  sweet,  sweet  love  of  thine. 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  give  me, 
For  a  spell  of  joy  and  power. 

The  hand  that  gave  the  rose-bud, 
And  thy  heart,  a  richer  flower. 


70  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Then  this  may  fade,  and  wither, 
No  longer  kissed  by  me, 

For  these,   my  burning  kisses. 
Will  then  be  showered  on  thee. 


Dim  grows  the  sky,  and  dusk  the  air, 
And  shadows  settle  everywhere. 
Save  when  the  embers  streak  the  wall 
With  flames,  that  soon  in  darkness  fall. 

Pensive  I  sit,  relapsing  fast 
Into  the  dead,  the  silent  Past. 
The  Past  returns,  the  dead  are  here ; 
Was  that  a  whisper  in  my  ear  ? 

No,  dear  one,  no,  I  did  not  sigh, 
Nor  does  a  tear  bedim  mine  eye  : 
'Twas  the  officious  light  you  brought, 
And  something  alien  to  my  thoughL 
But  even  if  my  tears  do  flow, 
I  weep  for  pleasure,  not  for  wo, 
I  weep — because  I  love  you  so. 


SUMMER   AND   AUTUMN. 

The  hot  mid-summer,  the  bright  mid-summer 

Reigns  in  its  glory  now  : 
The  earth  is  scorched  with  a  golden  fire, 
There  are  berries,  dead-ripe,  on  every  brier, 

And  fruits  on  every  bough. 


ROSES   AND   THORNS.  71 

But  the  autumn  days,  so  sober  and  calm, 

Steeped  in  a  dreamy  haze, 
When  the  uplands  all  with  harvests  shine, 
And  we  drink  the  wind  like  a  fine  cool  wine — 

Ah,  those  arc  the  best  of  days  ! 


THE   HELMET. 

[GERMANY.] 

Where  the  standards  waved  the  thickest, 
And  the  tide  of  battle  rolled. 

Furiously  he  charged  the  foemen, 
On  his  snow-while  steed  so  bold  ; 

But  he  wore  no  guarding  helmet, 
Only  his  long  hair  of  gold. 

"  Turn,  and  fly,  thou  rash  young  warrior, 

Or  this  iron  helmet  wear." 
"  Nay,  but  I  am  armed  already, 

In  the  brightness  of  my  hair  ; 
For  my  mother  kissed  its  tresses, 

With  the  holy  lips  of  prayer." 


ROSES  AND  THORNS. 

The  young  child  Jesus  had  a  garden, 
Full  of  roses,  rare  and  red  : 

And  thrice  a  day  he  watered  them, 
To  make  a  garland  for  his  head. 


72  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

When  they  were  full-blown  in  the  garden, 
He  called  the  Jewish  children  there, 

And  each  did  pluck  himself  a  rose, 
Until  they  stripped  the  garden  bare. 

"  And  now  how  will  you  make  your  garland  ? 

For  not  a  rose  your  path  adorns." 
"  But  you  forget,"  he  answered  them, 

"  That  you  have  left  me  still  the  thorns." 

They  took  the  thorns,  and  made  a  garland, 
And  placed  it  on  his  shining  head  ; 

And  where  the  roses  should  have  shown 
Were  little  drops  of  blood  instead. 


Beneath  the  heavy  curtains, 
My  face  against  the  pane, 

I  peer  into  the  darkness. 
And  scan  the  night  in  vain. 

The  vine  o'erruns  the  lattice, 
And  lies  along  its  roof, 

So  thick  with  leaves  and  clusters 
It  keeps  the  moon  aloof 

By  yonder  pear-tree  splintered 
The  feeble  radiance  falls. 

But  fails  to  pierce  the  branches, 
Or  touch  the  sombre  walls. 

No  moon,  no  starlight  gleaming, 
The  dark  encircles  me ; 

And,  what  is  more  annoying, 
My  neighbor  cannot  see. 


THE   VEILED   STATUE.  73 

She  stands  beneath  her  curtains, 

Her  face  against  the  pane, 
Nor  knows  that  I  am  watching 

For  her  to  night  again. 


Rattle  the  window,  Winds, 

Rain,  drip  on  the  panes  ; 
There  are  tears  and  sighs  in  our  hearts  and  eyes, 

And  a  w^eary  weight  on  our  brains. 

The  gray  sea  heaves  and  heaves, 

On  the  dreary  flats  of  sand  ; 
And  the  blasted  Hmb  of  the  churchyard  yew — 

It  shakes  Hke  a  ghostly  hand. 

The  dead  are  engulfed  beneath  it, 

Sunk  in  the  grassy  waves  : 
But  we  have  more  dead  in  our  hearts  to-day 

Than  Earth  in  all  her  graves ! 


THE  VEILED    STATUE. 

There's  a  statue  in  my  chamber, 
Carved  in  other  years  for  me. 

From  the  memory  of  a  lady 
In  a  land  beyond  the  sea. 

In  its  niche  I  keep  it  hidden 
By  a  veil  from  common  eyes  : 

But  Tny  own  behold  it  ever, 
And  its  shade  upon  me  lies. 
4. 


74  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Through  the  day  it  stands  before  me, 
And  appals  my'  shrinking  sight, 

And  at  night  it  grows  so  awful 
That  I  cannot  sleep  for  fright. 

For  when  falls  the  ghostly  moonlight 
In  the  silence  of  the  room, 

And  my  spirit  faints  within  me 
As  it  hearkens  for  its  doom — 

'Tis  no  more  the  woman's  statue, 
But  the  woman's  self  I  see. 

Pallid  with  her  love  and  sorrow, 
And  the  death  she  died  for  me. 

And  so  strange  her  spell  upon  me 
As  she  bends  above  my  bed, 

She  becomes  the  wretched  living, 
I  the  still  more  wretched  dead  I 


DEAD    LEAVES. 

The  day  is  dead,  and  in  its  grave, 

The  flowers  are  fast  asleep  ; 
But  in  this  solemn  wood  alone 

My  nightly  watch  I  keep. 
The  night  is  dark,  the  dew  descends, 
But  dew  and  darkness  are  my  friends. 

I  stir  the  dead  leaves  under  foot. 
And  breathe  the  earthy  smell ; 

It  is  the  odor  of  decay, 
And  yet  I  like  it  well. 

Give  others  day,  and  scented  flowers. 

Give  me  dead  leaves,  and   midnight  hours. 


THE   SEA.  75 


"POEMS    OF   THE   ORIENT." 

We  read  your  little  book  of  Orient  lays, 

And  half  believe  old  superstitions  true  ; 

No  Saxon  like  ourselves,  an  Arab,  you, 

Stolen  in  your  babyhood  by  Saxon  fays. 

That  you  in  fervid  song's  recall  the  blaze 

Of  eastern  suns,  behold  the  deep-blue  skies. 

Lie  under  rustling  palms,  breathe  winds  of  spice, 

And  dream  of  veiled  sultanas,  is  no  praise. 

All  this  is  native  to  you  as  the  air ; 

You  but  regain  the  birthright  lost  of  yore : 

The  marvel  is  it  now  becomes  our  own. 

We  wind  the  turban  round  our  Frankish  hair, 

Spring  on  our  steeds  that  paw  the  desert's  floor, 

And  take  the  sandy  solitude  alone. 


THE   SEA. 
[the  lover.] 

Thou  pallid  fisher  maiden, 
That  standest  by  the  shore, 

Why  dost  thou  watch  the  ocean, 
And  hearken  to  its  roar  ? 

It  is  some  Danish  sailor, 

That  sails  the  Spanish  main : 

Nor  will  thy  roses  redden 
Till  he  returns  again. 


76  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Thou  simple  fisher  maiden, 
He  cares  no  more  for  thee : 

He  sleeps  with  the  mermaidens, 
The  witches  of  the  sea. 

Thou  should"st  not  watch  the  ocean, 
And  hearken  to  its  roar, 

When  bridal  bells  are  ringing 
In  little  kirks  ashore. 

Go,  dress  thee  for  thy  bridal, 
A  stalwart  man  like  me 

Is  vvorth  a  thousand  sailors, 
Whose  bones  are  in  the  sea. 


AT   REST. 

With  folded  hands  the  lady  lies 
In  flowing  robes  of  white, 

A  lamp  beside  her  lonely  couch, 
A  globe  of  tender  light. 

With  such  a  light  above  her  head, 

A  little  year  ago, 
She  walked  adown  the  shadowy  vale 

Where  the  blood-red  roses  grow. 

A  shape  or  shadow  joined  her  there, 
To  pluck  the  royal  flower. 

But  stole  the  lily  from  her  breast. 
Albeit  her  only  dower. 


AT   REST,  T"] 

With  that  all  went,  her  false  love  first, 

And  then  her  peace  of  heart : 
The  hard  world  frowned,  her  friends  grew  cold, 

She  hid  in  tears  apart  : 

And  now  she  lies  upon  her  couch, 

Amid  the  dying  light, 
Nor  wakes  to  hear  the  little  voice 

That  moans  throughout  the  night ! 


Wrecks  of  clouds  of  a  sombre  gray, 
Like  the  ribbed  remains  of  a  mastodon, 

Were  piled  in  masses  along  the  west, 

And  a  streak  of  red  stretched  over  the  sun. 

I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  ferry-boat. 

As  the  summer  evening  deepened  to  night  ; 

Where  the  tides  of  the  river  ran  darkling  past, 
Through  lengthening  pillars  of  crinkled  light. 

The  wind  blew  over  the  land  and  the  waves 
With  its  salt  sea-breath,  and  a  spicy  balm. 

And  it  seemed  to  cool  my  throbbing  brain. 
And  to  make  my  restless  spirit  calm. 

The  forest  of  masts,  the  dark-hulled  ships. 
The  twinkling  lights,  and  the  sea  of  men— 

I  read  the  riddle  of  each  and  all. 

And  I  knew  their  inner  meaning  then. 

For  while  the  beautiful  moon  arose. 

And  drifted  the  boat  in  her  yellow  beams. 

My  soul  went  down  the  river  of  thought. 
That  flows  in  the  mvstic  land  of  dreams. 


78  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 


No,  I  will  not  leave  you,  Madam, 
In  the  darkness  and  the  rain  ; 

'Tis  for  you  to  be  so  cruel, 
But  for  me,  I  pity  pain. 

Be  my  silly  love  forgotten, 
I  forgive  you  your  disdain. 

You  have  goodly  halls  and  houses, 
And  your  loves  of  high  degree  ; 

I  have  nothing  but  my  passion. 
You  can  never  think  of  me, 

In  your  pride  as  far  above  me 
As  the  moon  above  the  sea. 

But  it  seems  at  last  you  love  me. 
If  I  read  your  thoughts  aright, 

For  behold,  I  fly  your  presence. 
And  you  follow  in  my  flight. 

Till  you  find  me  by  the  lightnings, 
In  the  thunders  of  the  night ! 


THE   SHADOW. 

There  is  but  one  great  sorrow, 

All  over  the  wide,  wide  world  ; 
But  that  in  turn  must  come  to  all — 
The  Shadow  that  moves  behind  the  pall, 
A  flag  that  never  is  furled. 


NOVEMBER.  79 

Till  he  in  his  mnrching  crosses 

The  threshold  of  the  door, 
Usurps  a  place  in  the  inner  room, 
Where  he  broods  in  the  awful  hush  and  gloom, 

Till  he  goes,  and  comes  no  more — 

Save  this  there  is  no  sorrow, 

Whatever  we  think  we  feel ; 
But  when  Death  comes  all's  over : 
'Tis  a  blow  that  we  never  recover, 

A  wound  that  never  will  heal. 


NOVEMBER. 

The  wild  November  comes  at  last 

Beneath  a  veil  of  rain  ; 
The  night  wind  blows  its  folds  aside, 

Her  face  is  full  of  pain. 

The  latest  of  her  race,  she  takes 
The  Autumn's  vacant  throne  : 

She  has  but  one  short  moon  to  live, 
And  she  must  live  alone. 

A  barren  realm  of  withered  fields, 
Bleak  woods  of  fallen  leaves, 

The  palest  morns  that  ever  dawned, 
The  dreariest  of  eves  : 

It  is  no  wonder  that  she  comes, 
Poor  month,  with  tears  of  pain  : 

For  what  can  one  so  hopeless  do 
But  weep,  and  weep  again  ? 


80  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 


CARMEN  NATUR.E  TRIUMPHALE. 

Musing  in  solitude  the  summer  long, 

Musing  beside  this  sea,  beneath  these  skies, 
Whose  gracious  light  upon  my  spirit  lies, 
My  spirit  has  grown  strong". 
Grown  strong,  and  calm,  and  wise, 
With  sharper,  surer  eyes. 
And  more  capacious  energies  of  Song. 
Where  I  was  blind  I   see. 

And  where  I  guessed  I  know  ; 
For  what  was  common  then  to  me 

Is  now  no  longer  so. 
The  outward  world  of  sound  and  sight, 
The  shows  of  day,  the  pomps  of  night, 

Are  other  than  they  seem  ; 
The  clouds  around  a  hidden  star, 

The  sleep  around  a  dream. 
The  airs  that  fan  the  globe 
Wrap  it  with  Being  like  a  robe. 
It  lives  in  dust,  and  grass,  and  flowers, 
And  in  the  trees, 
And  in  the  springs,  and  streams,  and  seas, 
And  in  the  mountains,  Earth's  Titanic  Powers. 
Throughout  the  Universe  there  is  no  spot 

Where  Life  is  not  : 
Nowhere  is  any  death.  Death  does  but  seem, 

A  dream  within  the  Uream  : 
Nothing  but  Life  and  Change,  its  heart  and  cause, 
The  adamantine  base  of  crumbling  laws. 
The  flowers  may  fade  away,  the  woods  may  fall. 
The  sea  may  waste  the  land,  the  land  the  sea, 
And  men  may  feed  the  worms  beneath  the  pall, 
And  Time  may  vanish  in  Eternity  ; 


CARMEN   NATUR.K   TRIUMPIIALE. 

Still  ocean-like  the  tides  of  Being  lie, 
Filled  from  exhaustless  urns  ; 
The  flame  of  Life  still  burns. 
And  God  still  sits  on  high, 
And  watches  Earth  below  with  His  Unsleeping  Eye  ! 

Why  should  I  read  what  man  has  penned, 
His  speculations  without  end, 
When  here  the  Book  of  Nature  lies, 
Open  to  all  her  children's  eyes. 
No  wire-drawn,  narrow  comments  there, 
Nor  any  warrant  for  despair  ? 
I  tell  you,  Nay  !     It  cannot  be, 
Creation  is  enough  for  me  : 
I  will  not  look 
On  creed  or  book. 
Or  aught  beside  the  earth  and  skies  ; 
There  is  no  need 
Of  book,  or  creed. 
To  teach  a  man,  and  make  him  good  and  wise. 
There  is  no  need  of  temples  built  with  hands, 
To  cast  their  shadows  over  subject  lands  ; 
No  need  of  stoled  priests,  and  chanting  friars, 
Censers,  and  incense  smoke,  and  altar  fires  ; 
No  need  of  crucifix  and  beads. 

No  need  of  sacred  bread  and  wine. 
Of  hymns,  and  psalms,  and  prayers  supine. 
And  penances  and  fasts  whereby  our  nature  bleeds. 
We  should  obey  ourselves  alone, 

Nor  ask  what  paths  have  others  trod  ; 
God  wants  no  sign  to  know  His  own. 

Nor  they  to  know  their  God. 
Better,  far  better  now 
The  dew  upon  my  brow, 
Than  all  the  ancient  use  and  wont 
4* 


82  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Of  water  from  the  holy  font, 

Though  shed  by  holiest  hands  on  earth, 

The  symbol  of  a  heavenly  birth. 

The  bread  and  wine  of  quiet  thought 

Is  sacrament  enough  for  me  ; 
Enough  the  temple  of  the  world, 
The  sky,  the  land,  the  sea  : 
Whether  the  Spring  perform  her  dewy  rite ; 

Whether  the  Summer  binds  her  brow  with  leaves ; 
Whether  the  Autumn  stands  amid  his  sheaves  ; 
Or  whether  Winter  plucks  his  locks  of  white. 
God  speaks  to  me  in  shouting  winds, 
And  in  the  waves  that  shoreward  come. 
And  in  the  little  insect's  hum, 
And  in  the  still  small  voice  of  human  minds. 
The  year  with  all  its  train  of  nights  and  days 
Is  a  perpetual  service  in  His  praise. 
Morn  comes  from  Him,  as  came  the  olden  seers, 
With  fiery  messages  of  awe  and  love  ; 
From  Him  the  golden  Noon  that  climbs  above, 
Transfigured  day  by  day  from  immemorial  years. 
And  Night,  incarnate  Night, 
Forever  veiled  and  calm, 
Eldest  of  all  things  that  created  be. 

Night  reads  in  silence  her  eternal  psalm, 
The  gospel  of  the  darkness,  penned  in  light. 
The  starred  evangel  of  Infinity  ! 
The  road  to  Heaven  is  broader  than  the  world. 
And  deeper  than  the  kingdoms  of  the  dead. 
And  up  its  ample  paths  the  nations  tread, 
W^ith  all  their  banners  furled  : 
No  saint  nor  angel  sits  beside  its  gate, 
Holding  the  key  within  his  griping  hands  : 
The  loving  gate  of  Heaven  wide  open  stands, 
And  never  shall  be  closed  by  earthly  hate  : 


CARMEN    NATUR.K    TRIUMPH  ALE.  83 

For  purified  from  all  their  grief  and  sin 
The  souls  keep  pouring  in, 
Singing  melodious  psalms, 
While  angels  pitch  their  tents  beneath  the  heavenly  palms  ! 

There  be  who  love  not  Nature,  souls  forlorn 
Who  see  no  beauty  in  the  smiling  morn, 
No  joy  in  noon,  no  tenderness  in  night, 

No  pillared  Cloud  of  Light  ! 
Not  such  the  little  child,  nor  such  the  youth 

Who  has  not  done  his  childly  nature  wrong  : 
These  Nature  loves,  and  leads  through  realms  of  truth, 

Forever  flushed  with  atmospheres  of  Song. 
Can  I  forget  the  wonder  and  the  joy 
That  Nature  roused  within  me,  when  a  boy, 
The  gush  of  feelings,  pure  and  undefiled, 
The  deep  and  rapturous  gladness, 
The  nameless  sadness. 
The  Vision  that  overpowered  the  visionary  child  ? 
Forget,  forget,  the  very  hour  I  do 
May  Heaven  forget  me  too  ! 
May  Nature  shut  me  in  her  wastes  apart, 
And  press  me  never  more  on  her  maternal  heart  ! 

O  Nature,  Nature,  I  have  worshipped  thee 

From  being's  dimmest  dawn,  perchance  before, 
Or  ere  my  spirit  touched  this  earthly  shore, 
Or  time  began  with  me. 

When  but  a  babe,  (so  say  the  ancient  crones 

Who  nursed  me  then,)  I  watched  the  sky  for  hours, 
Smiled  at  the  clouds,  and  laughed  in  glee  at  showers, 

And  wept  when  winds  were  at  their  wintry  moans. 

A  little  truant  child  with  trembling  tread, 

I  sought  the  garden  walks  with  wondering  mind, 
Perplexed  to  hear  the  fluting  of  the  wind 
In  branches  overhead  : 


84  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

I  loved  the  wind,  I  loved  the  whispering  trees, 
I  loved  their  shadowy  shifting  images, 
And  loved  the  spots  of  light  that  lay  like  smiles 
Around  the  green  arcades,  and  leafy  forest  aisles. 
With  bolder  steps  I  tracked  the  meadows,  deep 
In  fragrant  grasses  decked  with  daisies  white, 
And  marked  the  mist  on  many  a  mountain  height, 
Melting  away  like  Sleep. 
The  larks  went  up  before  me,  and  behind. 
But  not  so  fast  as  songs  within  my  tuneful  mind. 

Through  sweeps  of  landscape,  over  lawns  and  plains, 
And  where  the  birches  walled  their  silver  lanes 
I  passed,  and  down  the  gradual  slope  of  vales, 
Where  tangled  waters  told  their  drowsy  tales. 
The  river  lay  below  in  azure  rest, 
Sparkled  the  lake  with  lilies  on  its  breast ; 
And  where  the  jutting  rocks  o'errimmed  the  wall 
Of  abrupt  gulfs  I  saw  the  waterfall, 
With  clouds  of  vapor  blent, 
A  column  of  white  light,  a  snow-like  monument ! 
It  mattered  little  where  I  went. 
Everywhere  I  was  content ; 
Everywhere  I  saw  and  heard 
Sights  and  sounds  divine ; 
Everywhere  was  Nature  stirred, 
And  Nature's  love  was  mine. 
And  I,  what  loved  I  not,  O  Nature,  that  was  thine  ? 
1  held  my  peace,  I  sang  aloud, 
I  walked  the  world  as  in  a  cloud. 
/  lo7ied  the  Clouds. 
Fire-fringed  at  dawn,  or  red  with  twilight  bloom, 
Or  stretched  above,  like  isles  of  leaden  gloom 
In  heaven's  vast  deep,  or  drawn  in  belts  of  gray, 
Or  dark  blue  walls  along  the  base  of  day, 
Or  snow-drifts  luminous  at  highest  noon, 


CARMEN   NATUR.i:   TRIUMPIIALE.  85 

Ragged  and  black  in  tempests,  veined  with  lightning, 
And  when  the  moon  was  brightening 
Impcarled  and  purpled  by  the  changeful  moon. 

/  loved  the  Moon. 
Whether  she  lingered  by  the  porch  of  Even, 
When  Day  retiring  struck  his  yellow  tents  ; 
Whether  she  scaled  the  ancient  peaks  of  heaven, 

Whose  angels  watched  her  from  its  battlements  ; 
Whether,  like  early  Spring,  she  walked  the  night, 

O'er  tracts  of  cloudy  snow  ; 
Whether  she  dwindled  in  the  morning  light, 

Like  some  departing  spirit,  loath  to  go  ; 
Or  sifted  showers  of  silver  through  the  trees. 
Or  trod  with  her  white  feet  across  the  heaving  seas ! 
/  loved  tlie  Sea. 
Whether  in  calm  it  glassed  the  gracious  day 

With  all  its  light,  the  night  with  all  its  fires  ; 
Whether  in  storm  it  lashed  its  sullen  spray. 

Wild  as  the  heart  when  passionate  youth  expires  ; 
Or  lay,  as  now,  a  torture  to  my  mind. 
In  yonder  land-locked  bay,  unwrinklcd  by  the  wind. 
/  loved  the   Wind. 
Whether  it  kissed  my  hair,  and  pallid  brow  ; 
Whether  with  sweets  my  sense  it  fed,  as  now  ; 
Whether  it  blew  across  the  scudding  main  ; 
Whether  it  shrieked  above  a  stretch  of  plain  ; 
Whether,  on  autumn  days,  in  solemn  woods. 

And  barren  solitudes. 
Along  the  waste  it  whirled  the  withered  leaves  ; 
Whether  it  hummed  around  my  cottage  eaves. 
And  shook  the  rattling  doors, 
And  died  with  long-drawn  sighs,  on  bleak  and  dreary  moors  ; 
Whether  in  winter,  when  its.  trump  did  blow 
Through  desolate  gorges  dirges  of  despair, 
It  drove  the  snowflakes  slantly  down  the  air. 


86  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

And  piled  the  drifts  of  snow  ; 
Or  whether  it  breathed  soft  in  vernal  hours, 
And    filled    the    trees    with    sap,  and  filled    the   grass  with 
flowers. 
Wind,  sea,  and  moon,  and  clouds,  and  day  and  night. 
The  weeks,  and  months,  and  seasons  of  the  year  : 
What  was  there  was  not  dear  ? 
What  was  not  radiant  with  heavenly  light  ? 
What  did  not  Nature  cherish  that  was  not  mine? 
What  did  not  I  adore,  O  Nature,  that  was  thine  ? 

My  life  with  Nature  now  is  blent. 

She  is  a  portion  of  my  blood  ; 
I  am  her  passive  instrument. 

The  creature  of  her  every  mood  ; 
A  part  and  parcel  of  her  forms. 
Of  her  calms,  and  of  her  storms. 
To  her  my  soul  unfolds  as  violets  do. 
When  April  winds  are  low,  and  April  skies  are  blue. 
I  am  a  harp  whereon  she  plays, 
When  she  accompanies  her  lays, 
A  sea  of  moon-like  presence  sways, 
Shifting  its  tides  a  thousand  ways. 
Deep  in  her  heart  I  live,  and  feel 
All  that  she  pleases  to  reveal  ; 
And  in  my  heart,  with  joy  intense, 
I  paint  her  forms  that  fade  not  thence, 
And  in  my  thoughts  see  more  magnificence  ; 
My  waking  thoughts,  and  in  my  sleep 
I  carry  on  the  marvel  deep. 
And  dream  all  night  of  tropic  seas  and  skies. 
And  Time  immortal  Youth,  and  Earth  a  Paradise ! 
A  Presence  fronts  and  haunts  me  everywhere. 
Stands  in  the  sun,  and  dips  below  the  sea, 
Fills  all  the  voidest  spaces  of  the  air, 


CARMEN   NATUK.K   TRIUMPHALE.  8/ 

And  lives  in  all  things  like  Eternity. 
The  motes  of  dust  on  which  I  tread, 
The  floating  stars  above  my  head, 
All  without  me,  and  within, 
To  Nature  and  to  Man  arc  kin. 
Whence  comes  this  strange  affinity 
That  Man,  O  Nature,  has  for  thee  ? 
Forever  unto  thee  we  run, 
And  give  ourselves  away, 
Like  melting  mists  that  seek  the  sun. 
Like  night  that  seeks  the  day. 
To  Nature  do  we  turn,  and  minister, 
Because  we  were  of  old  a  part  of  her. 
It  is  a  recognition, 

A  memory,  an  appealing. 
An  interchange  of  vision. 
An  interchange  of  feeling. 
The  soul  of  man  detects  and  sympathizes 

With  its  old  shapes  of  matter,  long  outworn. 
And  matter,  too,  to  new  sensations  born, 
Detects  the  soul  of  man,  with  spiritual  surprises. 
Few  understand  their  mutual  dreams, 

And  few  translate  their  speeches. 
Save  poets  versed  in  Nature's  themes. 

And  those  whom  Nature  teaches. 
They  stare  at  us,  and  we  at  them, 
We  dare  not  slight,  nor  dare  contemn  : 
We  are  the  ripe  fruit  on  the  stem. 
Not  a  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Not  a  bird  upon  the  bough. 
But  waves  its  little  flag  to  me. 

And  sings  within  my  spirit  now  ; 
Sings  to  itself  in  bowers  apart. 
Within  the  regions  of  my  heart. 
I  am  what  winds  and  waters  make  me. 


88  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

What  the  clouds  and  thunders  please, 
And  what  the  changeful  seas  : 
As  Nature  is  so  men  must  take  me. 
For  I  to  Nature's  self  belong, 

As  much  as  any  bud  or  bee  ; 
And  when  you  do  to  her  a  wrong. 

You  do  a  wrong  to  me. 
Be  it  sad,  or  merry,  or  sweet  or  strong, 
She  breathes  her  influence  in  my  song, 
And  in  my  daily  life  she  gleams, 
And  is  the  substance  of  my  dreams. 
I  love  her  not  as  bard  or  painter  might, 
To  spy  and  seize  on  sound  and  sight. 

But  for  mine  own  delight. 
The  sun  may  burn,  the  stars  may  shine, 
The  pallid  moon  in  heaven  may  pine. 
The  sea  may  wash  a  rocky  shore. 
The  wind  may  howl,  the  tempest  roar. 
Nor  I  be  other  than  before. 
It  may  be  day,  it  may  be  night, 
Or  foul  or  fair, 
I  do  not  care, 
I  go  not  there  to  learn,  but  for  my  own  delight ! 
And  yet  I  learn  what  books  can  never  teach, 
Nor  any  words  express  ; 
A  mystic  love,  a  wordless  speech, 
For  Nature  teaches  so  in  sacred  silentness. 
And  when  we  seem  asleep  in  dreams, 

Our  deepest  lore  is  caught. 
For  Truth  within  man's  nature  dwells, 
Her  fabled  fount,  her  well  of  wells. 
Her  crystal  deep  of  thought. 

In  silent  thought,  that  yearns  to  find  a  tongue, 

Burthencd  with  cares,  and  racked  with  cureless  pains. 


INVOCATION   TO   SLEKP.  89 

I  rove  to-day  through  Nature's  wide  domains, 
No  longer  gay  and  young ; 
No  longer  moved  with  feelings  undcfiled, 
No  more,  no  more  a  child  ! 
But  wherefore  grieve  ?     The  Past  is  past, 
Nor  can  the  Present  always  last ; 
It  sows  the  Future  in  its  seeds. 
And  flowers  will  grow  where  grow  the  weeds, 

And  suns  will  shine,  and  dews  will  fall, 
And  Love,  the  sum  of  human  needs. 

Love,  comes  to  all  : 
Yea,  even  comes,  so  universal  he. 
To  me,   to  even  me  ! 
Then  let  me  dry  again  these  gathering  tears. 

These  bitter  tears,  and  turn,  Beloved,  to  thee. 
For  thee  to  live  and  die,  in  future  years. 

As  thou  for  only  me  ! 
Meanwhile  my  soul  to  meditation  given, 
A  many-sided  mirror,  broad  and  bright. 
Reflects  whatever  meets  my  thoughtful  sight. 
The  myriad  shapes  and  hues  of  earth  and  heaven  ; 
Diffused  through  all,  like  odors  in  the  wind, 
My  mind  the  Universe,  the  Universe  my  Mind ! 


INVOCATION   TO    SLEEP. 

Draw  the  curtains  round  your  bed. 
And  ril  shade  the  wakeful  light ; 

'Twill  be  hard  for  you  to  sleep. 
If  you  keep  me  still  in  sight ; 

But  you  must  though,  and  without  me, 
For  I  have  a  song  to  write. 
Then  sleep,  love,  sleep  : 


90  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

The  flowers  have  gone  to  rest, 
And  the  birds  are  in  the  nest  : 
It  is  time  for  you   to  join  them   beneath  the  wings  of 
Sleep. 

Wave  thy  poppies  round  her,  Sleep, 
Touch  her  eyelids,  flood  her  brain, 
Banish  Memory,  Thought,  and  Strife, 
Bar  the  portals  of  her  life, 

Till  the  morning  comes  again  ; 
Let  no  enemy  intrude 
On  her  helpless  solitude  ; 

Fear,  and  Pain,  and  all  their  train — 
Keep  the  evil  hounds  at  bay. 
And  all  evil  dreams   away. 
Thou,  thyself,  keep  thou  the  key, 
Or  entrust  it  unto  me, 

Sleep,  Sleep,  Sleep ! 
A  lover's  eyes  are  bright. 
In  the  darkest  night, 
And  jealous  even  of  dreams,  almost  of  thee — Sleep! 

I  must  sit  and  think,  and  think, 
Till  the  stars  begin  to  wink, 
(For  the  web  of  Song  is  wrought 
Only  in  the  loom  of  Thought  :) 
She  must  lie  and  sleep,  and  sleep, 
(Be  her  slumbers  calm  and  deep  !) 
Till  the  dews  of  morning  weep. 
Therefore  bind  your  sweetest  sprite 
To  her  service  and  delight. 
All  the  night, 

Sleep,  Sleep,  Sleep  ! 
And  I'll  whisper  in  her  ear. 
Like  a  bee  among  the  flowers. 


THE   STORK   AND   THE   RUBY.  9 1 

What  she  loveth  so  to  hear, 

In  the  night's  impassioned  hours, 
News  from  my  warm  heart  to  hers, 
Burthening  Love's  ambassadors — 

A  happy  sigh  and  smile  ; 
Crooning  to  myself  the  while 
Ditties  delicate  and  free, 
Dedicate  to  her,  and  thee, 
Sleep,  Sleep,  Sleep ! 
For  I  owe  ye  both  a  boon, 
And  I  meant  to  grant  it  soon, 
In  my  golden  numbers  that  breathe  of  Love  and  Sleep  ! 


THE  STORK   AND  THE  RUBY. 

A  CERTAIN  prince,  I  have  forgot  his  name, 

Playing  one  morning  at  the  archer's  game. 

Within  a  garden  where  his  palace  stood. 

Shot  at  a  stork,  and  spilled  the  creature's  blood 

For  very  wantonness  and  cruelty. 

Thrice  had  he  pierced  his  target  in  the  eye 

At  fifty  paces  ;  twice  defloured  a  rose. 

Striking  each  time  the  very  leaf  he  chose  ; 

Then  he  set  up  his  dagger  in  a  hedge, 

And  split  an  arrow  on  its  glittering  edge. 

What  next  to  hit  he  knew  not.     Looking  round 

He  saw  a  stork  just  lighted  on  the  ground. 

To  rest  itself  after  its  leagues  of  flight  : 

The  dewy  walk  in  which  it  stood  was  brij^^ht, 

So  white  its  plumage,  and  so  clear  its  eyes, 

Twinkling  with  innocence  and  sweet  surprise. 

"  I'll  shoot  the  silly  bird,"  the  prince  exclaimed  : 

And  l:)ending  his  strong  bow  he  straightwav  aimed 


92  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

His  keenest  arrow  at  its  panting  heart 

The  lucky  arrow  missed  a  vital  part, 

(Or  was  it  some  kind  wind  that  pushed  it  by  ?) 

And  only  struck  and  broke  the  creature's  thigh. 

The  poor  thing  tumbled  in  a  lily  bed, 

And  its  blood  ran  and  made  the  lihes  red. 

It  marked  the  changing  color  of  the  flowers, 

The  winding  garden  walks,  the  bloomy  bowers, 

And,  last,  the  cruel  prince,  who  laughed  with  glee — 

Fixing  the  picture  in  its  memory: 

This  done  it  struggled  up,  and  flew  away. 

Leaving  the  prince  amazed,  and  in  dismay. 

Beyond  the  city  walls,  a  league  or  more, 
A  little  maid  was  spinning  at  her  door. 
Singing  old  songs  to  cheer  the  long  day's  work. 
Her  name  was   Heraclis.     The  fainting  stork 
Dropped  at  her  feet,  and  with  its  ebon  bill 
'      Showed  her  its  thigh,  broken  and  bleeding  still. 
She  fetched  it  water  from  a  neighbor  spring. 
And  while  it  drank  and  washed  each  dabbled  wing 
She  set  the  fractured  bones  with  pious  care, 
And  bound  them  with  the  fillet  of  her  hair. 
Eased  of  its  pain  again  it  flew  away, 
Leaving  the  maiden  happier  all  the  day. 

That  night  the  prince  as  usual  went  to  bed, 

His  royal  wine  a  little  in  his  head. 

Beside  him  stood  a  casket  full  of  gems. 

The  spoil  of  conquered  monarchs'  diadems  : 

Great   pearls,  milk-white,  and   shining  like   the   moon, 

Emeralds,  grass-green,  sapphires,  like  skies  of  June, 

Brilliants  that  threw  their  light  upon  the  wall. 

And  one  great  ruby  that  outshone  them  all, 

Large  as  a  pigeon's  egg,  and  red  as  wine. 


THE    STORK    AND    THE    RUBY.  93 

At  last  he  sluniljcrcd  in  the  pale  moonshine. 

Meantime  the  watchful  stork  was  in  his  bowers  ; 

Again  it  saw  its  blood  upon  the  flowers, 

And  saw  the  walks,  the  fountain's  shaft  in  air, 

15ut  not  the  cruel  prince,  no  prince  was  there  : 

So  up  and  down  the  spacious  courts  it  flew, 

And  ever  nearer  to  the  palace  drew. 

Passing  the  lighted  windows  row  by  row. 

It  saw  the  prince,   and  saw  the  ruby's  glow. 

Hopping  into  his  chamber,  grave  and  still. 

It  seized  the  precious  ruby  with  its  bill, 

And  spreading  then  its  rapid  wings  in  flight, 

Flew  out  and  vanished  in  the  yawning  night. 

Night  slowly  passed,  and  morning  broke  again. 

There  came  a  light  tap  on  the  window-pane 

Of  Heraclis  :  it  woke  her,  she  arose, 

And  slipping  on  in  haste  her  peasant  clothes. 

Opened  the  door  to  see  who  knocked,  and  lo, 

In  walked  the  stork  again,  as  white  as  snow, 

Triumphant  with  the  ruby,  whose  red  ray 

Flamed  in  her  face,  anticipating  day  ! 

Again  the  creature  pointed  to  its  thigh. 

And  something  human  brightened  in  its  eye, 

A  look  that  said  ^^ I  thank  you  !  ""  plain  as  words. 

The  virgin's  look  was  brighter  than  the  bird's, 

So  glad  was  she  to  see  it  was  not  dead : 

She  stretched  her  hand  to  sleek  its  bowing  head, 

But  ere  she  could  it  made  a  sudden  stand. 

And  thrust  the  priceless  ruby  in  her  hand, 

And  sailing  swiftly  through  the  cottage  door 

Mounted  the  morning  sky,  and  came  no  morel 


94  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 


[antique.] 

We  are  bent  with  age  and  cares, 
In  the  last  of  our  gray  hairs, 
And  we  lean  upon  our  staffs, 
Looking  for  the  epitaphs  ; 
For  we  are  the  last,  the  last, 
In  the  ruins  of  the  Past. 

When  our  youth  was  in  its  prime, 

Then  it  was  a  merry  time  ; 

Suns  were  golden,  stars  were  bright. 

And  the  moon  was  a  delight. 

And  we  wandered  in  its  beams 

In  the  sweetest,  sweetest  dreams. 

Now  our  dreams  are  fled. 

For  the  happy  Past  is  dead. 

And  we  feel  it  lived  in  vain. 

And  will  never  come  again. 

No,  'tis  gone,  and  gone  each  trace 

Of  its  once-familiar  face: 

Even  the  dust  for  which  we  yearn 

Lost,  and  lost  its  very  urn. 

Nothing  remains  except  the  tomb, 

(Earth,  and  heaven  so  draped  with  clouds  !) 
And  we  who  wander  in  its  gloom, 

And  soon  will  need  our  shrouds, 
So  pale  are  we,  and  so  aghast 
At  the  absence  of  the  Past. 

We  had  friends  when  we  were  young, 
And  we  shared  their  smiles  and  tears  ; 


PAIN    IN   AUTUMN.  95 

But  they  are  forever  flown, 
We  can  only  weep  alone, 

For  the  unreturning  years. 
Roses  come  again  with  Spring, 
And  the  summer  birds  do  sing  : 
But  the  dead  who  loved  them  so, 
They  are  in  the  winter's  snow. 
Far  from  birds,  and  far  from  flowers, 
And  this  weary  life  of  ours. 
All  is  over  !     Naught  remains. 
Save  the  memory  of  our  pains. 
And  the  years  that  bear  us  fast 
To  the  silence  of  the  Past  ! 


PAIN   IN   AUTUMN. 

A  DROWSY  pain,  a  dull,  dead  pain 
Preys  on  my  heart,  and  clouds  my  brain ; 
And  shadows  brood  above  my  dreams, 
Like  spectral  mists  o'er  haunted  streams. 

There  is  no  fire  within  the  grate. 
The  room  is  cold  and  desolate, 
And  dampness  on  the  window-panes 
Foretells  the  equinoctial  rains. 
The  stony  road  runs  past  the  door, 
Dry  and  dusty  evermore  ; 
Up  and  down  the  people  go, 
Shadowy  figures,  sad  and  slow, 
And  the  strange  houses  lie  below. 

Across  the  road  the  dark  elms  wait, 
Ranged  in  a  row  bcforj  the  gate, 


96  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Giving  their  voices  to  the  wind, 

And  their  sorrows  to  my  mind. 

Behind  tlie  house  the  river  tiows, 

Half  unrest  and  half  repose  ; 

Ships  lie  below  with  mildewed  sails, 

Tattered  in  forgotten  gales  ; 

Along  each  hulk  a  whitish  line, 

The  dashing  of  the  ancient  brine. 

Beyond,  the  spaces  of  the  sea. 

Which  old  Ocean's  portals  be : 

The  land  runs  out  its  horns  of  sand, 

And  the  sea  comes  in  to  meet  the  land. 

Sky  sinks  to  sea,  sea  swells  to  sky, 

Till  they  meet,  and  mock  the  eye, 

And  where  they  meet  the  sand  hills  lie ; 

No  cattle  in  their  pastures  seen, 

For  the  yellow  grass  was  never  green. 

With  a  calm  and  solemn  stare 

They  look  to  heaven  in  blank  despair, 

And  heaven,  with  pity  dumb  the  while, 

Looks  down  again  with  a  sickly  smile. 

The  sky  is  gray,  half  dark,  half  bright, 
Swimming  in  dim,  uncertain  light. 
Something  between  the  day  and  night. 
And  the  winds  blow,  but  soft  and  low, 
Unheard,  unheeded  in  their  wo, 
Like  some  sick  heart,  too  near  o'erthrown 
To  vent  its  grief,  by  sigh  or  moan. 
Some  heart  that  breaks,  like  mine — alone. 

And  here  I  dwell,  condemned  to  see, 
And  be,  what  all  these  phantoms  be. 
Within  this  realm  of  penal  pain, 
Beside  the  melancholy  main  : 


THE    FIRST    SNOW,  97 

The  waste  which  lies,  as  legend  saith, 
Between  the  worlds  of  Life  and  Death  ; 
A  Soul  from  Life  to  Death  betrayed, 
A  Shadow  in  the  World  of  Shade. 


THE    FIRST   SNOW. 

To-day  has  been  a  pleasant  day, 

Despite  the  cold  and  snow  ; 
A  sabbath  stillness  filled  the  air. 
And  pictures  slumbered  everywhere, 

Around,  above,  below. 

We  woke  at  dawn,  and  saw  the  trees 

Before  our  windows  white  ; 
Their  limbs  were  clad  with  snow,  like  bark, 
Save  that  the  under  sides  were  dark, 

Like  bars  against  the  light. 

The  fence  was  white  around  the  house, 

The  lamp  before  the  door ; 
The  porch  was  glazed  with  pearled  sleet, 
Great  drifts  lay  in  the  silent  street, 

The  street  was  seen  no  more. 

Long  trenches  had  been  roughly  dug. 

And  giant  footprints  made  ; 
But  few  were  out,  the  streets  were  bare, 
I  saw  but  one  pale  wanderer  there, 

And  he  was  like  a  shade. 

I  seemed  to  walk  another  world, 
Where  all  was  still  and  blest  : 
5 


98  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

The  cloudless  sky,  the  stainless  snows- 
It  was  a  vision  of  repose, 
A  dream  of  heavenly  rest  : 

A  dream  the  holy  night  completes. 

For  now  the  moon  hath  come, 
I  stand  in  heaven  with  folded  wings, 
A  free  and  happy  soul  that  sings 
When  all  things  else  are  dumb  ! 


THE   ABDICATION    OF   NOMAN. 

NOMAN,  the  King  of  Hira,  sat  one  day 
In  his  pavilion,  pitched  at  Karwanak, 
With  Bahram  Gour,  the  son  of  Yezdejird, 
And  Adi  Ibn  Zeid,  the  Persian  bard. 
Cross-legged  on  scarlet  cushions  stuffed  with  down 
They  sat  and  smoked  ;    the  bubbling  of  their  pipes 
Wos  like  a  river  in  the  land  of  sleep. 
The  curtain  of  the  tent  was  drawn  aside, 
Looped  up  with  golden  cords  ;    a  twinkling  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  tassels,  smote  the  water-bowls, 
And  perished  in  the  great  sea  emerald 
On  Noman's  turban  :    other  light  was  none ; 
They  lolled  away  the  hours  in  purple  dusk. 

Before  the  doorway  of  the  tent  they  saw 
The  palace  park  and  garden  bright  with  spring. 
A  pillared  avenue  of  stately  palms 
Slept  in  the  sun  ;  a  fountain  rose  and  fell, 
Breaking  the  silver  surface  at  its  base.; 
Gold-fish  like  sunken  ingots  lay  in  heaps 
Beneath  the  fountain's  rain ;  beside  its  rim, 


THE   ABDICATION   OF   NOMAN.  99 

Dipping  his  long  bill  in  a  lotus  cup, 

A  black  crane  stooped  ;  between  the  silent  palms 

A  length  of  silken  carpet  was  unrolled: 

A  white  gazelle  dangled  a  silver  chain, 

Picking  its  way  through  tufts  of  broidered  flowers. 

Flowers  of  all  hues  and  odors  streaked  the  ground, 

Roses,  fire-red,  large  tulips,  cups  of  flame, 

Banks  of  snow  lilies  turning  dew  to  pearls, 

And  rolling  rivers  of  anemonies, 

The  flowers  that  Noman  loved  ;  their  crimson  leaves 

Were  rubies  set  on  stalks  of  emerald. 

Broad  meadows  stretched  afar,  wherein,  dim-seen 

Through  winking  haze,  the  still  Euphrates  lay — 

The  great  Euphrates  fresh  from  Babylon. 

Between  their  whiffs  of  smoke  with  happy  eyes 
They  drank  the  landscape  in  ;  to  Bahram  Gour 
It  grew  his  father's  garden  at  Madain — 
Save  that  the  Emir's  daughter  was  not  there, 
Whereat  he  sighed  :  his  long  beard  Adi  stroked. 
And  thrummed  his  idle  fingers  in  the  air, 
Turning  a  couplet  in  his  tuneful  brain. 
Noman  alone  was  sad,  for  he  nor  had 
The  poet's  idleness,  nor  prince's  youth  ; 
Grown  gray  in  troubled  rule  he  longed  for  rest, 
But  found  it  never:  fair  things  made  him  grieve, 
Because  their  lives  are  short.     He  saw  the  end. 

"  Why  grasp  at  wealth  and  power  ?     Why  hoard  up  gold  ? 
Or  make  our  v/hims  a  law  for  other  men  ? 
Earth  hides  her  gold  in  veined  rocks  and  hills. 
Packs  it  in  river  sands:  we  dig  it  out, 
And  stamp  our  Kingly  faces  in  its  light. 
And  call  it  ours.     Does  Earth  give  up  her  claim  ? 
Not  she,  she  calmly  waits,  and  takes  it  back. 


lOO  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

We  sift  the  sands,  dive  down  into  the  waves, 

Ransack  the  caves  for  gems  ;  Earth  gives  them  up. 

I  have  an  hundred  caskets  full  of  pearls, 

Ten  chests  of  chrysolites,  a  turquoise  plate 

That  holds  a  maund  of  corn,  a  chandelier, 

The  chains  whereof  are  beryls  linked  with  gold, 

Its  flame  a  ruby,  found  in  Balashan. 

Not  mine,  but  Earth's  ;  for  I  shall  pass  away, 

I,  and  my  race,  but  Earth  will  still  remain, 

And  keep  my  gems ;  in  palaces  like  mine, 

To  swell  the  treasury  of  future  Kings, 

Or,  haply,  in  the  caverns  where  they  grew. 

We  build  rich  palaces,  and  wall  them  in, 

Make  parks  and  gardens  near,  plant  trees,  sow  flowers, 

And  say,  '  All  this  is  ours  ! '     But  what  says  Earth  ? 

She  only  smiles  her  still  cold  smile  of  scorn. 

Forests  a  thousand  parasangs  in  length 

Are  hers,  and  hers  the  tropic's  zone  of  bloom, 

And  when  we  die  our  marble  palaces: 

She  lets  the  jackal  prowl  about  their  courts. 

My  days  have  numbered  five  and  sixty  years. 

Twenty  and  eight  were  passed  upon  the  throne: 

I  count  them  lost.     I  may  have  gained  some  power, 

Added  a  few  wild  tribes  to  those  I  rule, 

And  treasures  to  my  treasure,  but  my  life — 

(I  had  so  little  time  to  think  of  that,) 

Is  not  a  whit  the  richer,  save  in  cares. 

Ah,  who  that  knows  himself  would  be  a  King  ?  " 

So  spake  the  King  the  secret  of  his  heart. 
Like  one  who  babbles  to  himself  alone. 
His  head  dropped  on  his  bosom,  and  his  beard 
Hung  in  his  lap :  the  shadow  of  his  words 


THE   ABDICATION    OF   NOMAN.  lOI 

Drifted  across  the  stream  of  Adi's  thought, 
And  when  the  King  had  ended  he  began : 

"  Name  me  the  King  whose  power  was  vast  enough 
To  cope  with  Death,  or  cheat  the  Sepulchre. 
Whither  is  Chosroes  gone,  the  mightiest,  he, 
Of  Persian  Kings  ?     Whither  did  Sapor  go  ? 
And  they,  the  fair-haired  race,  the  Roman  lords — 
Tell  me  why  no  memorial  lives  of  them. 
And  he,  the  nameless   King,  who   Hadhr  built. 
Where   Khabur  and  the  lordly  Tigris  flow. 
He  faced  his  palace  walks  with  marble  slabs, 
Polished  and  white,  and  raised  his  roof  so  high, 
His  ridgy  roofs,  the  birds  made  nests  thereon. 
The  thought  of  dying  never  crossed  his  mind, 
But  not  the  less  he  died,  and  died  alone; 
For  when  Death  came  to  that  unhappy  King 
The  very  sentinels  had  fled  his  gates." 

"  The  end  of  all  things  must  be  near  at  hand," 
Said  Bahram  Gour,  half  earnest,  half  in  jest, 
"  For  lo,  the  world  hath  now  two  Solomons, 
Whose  wisdom  is  compressed  in  three  small  words, 
The  knell  of  Folly,   'All  is  Vanity!' 
It  may  be  so,   my  dear  philosophers. 
But  are  you  free  from  blame  ?     What  says  the  song  ? 
Mt  is  my  sight  that  fails  me,  not  the  rose 
That  waxes  pale  ;   my  scent  that  is  too  coarse, 
No  lack  of  odor  in  the  heavenly  musk.' 
Cry  down  the  world  who  will,  but  Bahram  Gour 
Will  love  it  still."     "  And  I,"  the  poet  said, 
His  fancied  sadness  dying  with  the  words 
That  gave  it  birth,   "  and  never  more  than   now. 
When  to  the  quiet  tent  and  drowsy  pipe 
Succeeds  the  eager  life  on  flying  steeds." 


102  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

From  out  their  marble  stalls  the  dusky  grooms 
Led  forth  the  royal  stud  of  milk-white  mares. 
The  falconers  came  next  with  hooded  birds, 
Each  with  a  silver  label  on  its  leg  ; 
And  then  the  keepers  with  the  beasts  of  chase 
In  chains,  lithe  panthers,  and  keen-scented  dogs, 
Tigers,  whose  tawny  hides  are  mapped  with  black, 
And  lions  trained  to  hunt, — the  white  gazelle 
Fled  from  their  cruel  eyes  to  Noman's  tent. 
Slowly  like  one  who  wills  away  a  dream. 
Lifting  his  head  the  King  called  home  his  thoughts. 
He  saw  the  trembling  creature  at  his  feet, 
And  fondled  it ;  the  voice  of  Adi's  lute. 
Wooing  a  song,  brought  Adi  to  his  mind, 
The  jingling  of  a  scabbard  Bahram  Gour  ; 
Adi  still  sat  and  smoked,  but  Bahram  Gour 
Had  risen,  and  was  girding  on  his  sword. 
"  My  sombre  fancies  led  me  from  the  chase  ; 
But  now  that  I  have  found  myself  once  more 
Let  us  depart  at  once.     They  wait  for  us." 
He  beckoned,  and  the  grooms  led  up  their  steeds. 
Between  the  palms  whose  shadows  struck  their  brows, 
Launching  across  the  carpet's  bed  of  flowers, 
Around  the  fountain's  glittering  mist  they  rode. 
The  fretful  panthers  snuffed,  and  tugged  their  chains, 
The  calmer  lions,  quiet  in  their  strength. 
Strode  on,  and  dragged  their  keepers  after  them. 

Not  far  from  Hira  by  the  river's  side, 
Where  stood  a  ruined  city  was  a  tomb. 
Between  the  river  and  the 'tomb  were  trees 
Whose  twinkling  leaves  were  shaken  by  the  wind. 
Dropping  the  hunt  before  the  game  was  roused 
Thither  the  King  and  poet  rode  alone  ; 
They  saw  the  shaken  boughs,  but  felt  no  wind. 


THE   ABDICATION   OF   NOMAN.  I03 

"  The  leaves  are  tongues,"  said  Noman,  "  and  they  speak, 
With  some  grave  message  charged,  or  prophecy. 
You  read  the  hidden  meaning  of  the  flowers, 
Can  you  expound  the  language  of  the  trees  ?  " 

"  Many  have  here  dismounted  from  their  steeds 
And  kneeling  camels  in  the  days  of  old  ; 
Have  slaked  their  thirst  with  wine  beneath  our  shade, 
And  led  their  camels  to  the  limpid  tide. 
They  strained  their  shining  wine  from  precious  flasks, 
They  tossed  the  splendid  trappings  of  their  steeds  ; 
Gayly  they  lived,  the  pensioners  of  Time  : 
But  ere  life's  noon  they  died,  cut  off  by  Fate. 
Their  ashes  drift  and  waste  like  withered  leaves. 
Blown  by  the  east  wind  now,  now  by  the  west." 
So  spake  the  trees  to  Adi.     So  he  spake. 

"  All  things  are  in  a  league  with  my  grave  thoughts 
To  make  me  think  of  death,"  replied  the  King. 
"If  leaves  whose  little  lives  of  sun  and  dew 
Last  not  the  year  out  say  that  man  is  dust, 
What  must  the  dust,  where  men  by  millions  sleep, 
The  dead  of  ages,  say?"     The  poet  stooped, 
And  scooped  his  two  hands  full  of  dry  white  dust. 
And  held  it  to  his  ear.     "  Interpret  it." 
"  Know  that  the  dust  was  once  a  man  like  thee, 
Know,  too,  that  thou  wilt  one  day  be  but  dust." 
So  spake  the  dust  to  Adi.     So  he  spake. 

"  The  words  are  changed,"  said  Noman,  "  not  the  tune, 
For  that  still  urges  man's  mortality. 
When  man  forgets  his  end,  nor  earth  nor  heaven 
Can  hold  their  peace.     The  tomb  remains  to  speak. 
I  go  to  question  that.     Wait  for  mc  here. 
Fear  not  to  see  me  enter  its  dark  walls  ; 
The  time  will  come  when  they  will  shut  me  in 


I04  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Forever  :  now  I  shall  return  again." 

He  waved  the  poet  back,  and  throwing  wide 

Its  mouldering  doors  went  down  into  the  tomb. 

Before  the  place  a  watchful  sentinel 
The  poet  paced  his  beat  with  noiseless  steps, 
Hearkening  the  while  to  catch  the  King's  least  call. 
He  heard  the  talking  leaves  above  his  head, 
The  river  rippling  on  the  sandy  shore, 
But  not  the   King  ;   the  grass  was  growing  thick 
Around  the  tomb,  but  where  the  mares  were  hitched 
It  grew  not ;  cutting  with  his  sword  a  swath. 
He  bore  an  armful  to  the  hungry  mares  : 
But  still  the  King  nor  called  to  him,  nor  came. 
At  last  the  fiery  arrows  of  the  noon 
Drove  back  the  lessening  shadows  of  the  trees. 
And  hemmed  them  in  a  circle  round  their  trunks ; 
To  this  the  bard  retreated  from  the  heat. 
The  happy  light  came  down  upon  his  heart, 
And  stretched  at  ease  he  sang  a  summer  song. 

"  The  morning  moon  is  set,  the  stars  are  gone  ; 
Beside  the  palace  gate  the  peacocks  strut, 
And  in  the  tank  the  early  lotus  wakes. 

The  dew  fell  all  night  long,  and  drenched  my  robe, 
The  nightingale  complained  to  me,  in  vain  : 
I  waited  for  the  dawn  to  meet  my  love. 

She  stands  before  me  in  the  garden  walk, 

Her  blue  robe  bordered  with  a  fringe  of  pearls  ; 

She  offers  me  a  rose ;  I  kneel  to  her. 

'  Nay,  speak  not  yet,  though  all  your  words  are  pearls 
Your  smiles  outrun  your  speech,  and  greet  me  first : 
But  when  you  smile  not,  speak,  or  I  shall  die  ! 


TME   ABDICATION   OF   NOMAX.  lO- 

*  I  kiss  the  rose, — I  would  it  were  your  lips  ! 
But  wherefore  ?     Such  a  kiss  would  end  my  days. 
Pity  me,  Sweet,  my  heart  is  at  your  feet !  ' 

My  long  black  hair  is  streaked  with  silver  threads, 
Years  dim  my  eyes ;  yet  still  in  thought  I  see 
The  Rose  of  Beauty  in  the  garden  walk. 

She  sleeps  the  long,  long  sleep  ;  disturb  her  not 

O  nightingales,  be  silent,  or  depart  : 

And  thou,  my  heart,  be  still,  or  moan  and  break." 

The  river  rippled  louder,  but  the  leaves 
Crowding  together  whispered,  and  the  clash 
Shook  one  at  Adi's  feet  ;  the  dust  was  stirred. 
He  raised  his  eyes,  and  lo,  a  cloud  of  dust 
Blown  from  the  clattering  hoofs  of  flying  steeds. 
He  knew  the  milk  white  mares,  and  knew  the  troop 
That  rode  them— Noman's  huntsmen  ;  Bahram  Gour 
Trailing  his  spear  rode  wildly  at  their  head. 
"  The  King  is  lost,"  he  shouted  as  he  came  : 
"  Not  so,"  said  Adi,  pointing  to  the  tomb, 
"  The  King  is  there.     He  muses  in  the  tomb. 
Perchance  he  sleeps.     I  would  have  shared  his  dreams. 
But  he  forbade,  and  made  me  wait  him  here." 
Then  Bahram  Gour  went  down  into  the  tomb. 
To  wake  the   King,  and  many  of  the  lords 
Went  with  him  ;  those  who  stayed  behind  were  hushed. 
They  heard  the  talking  leaves  above  their  heads. 
The  river  rippling  on  the  sandy  shore, 
But  not  the  King.     At  length  a  voice  was  heard — 
"  The  King  is  dead!''''  and  Bahram  Gour  came  out 
Bearing  a  lifeless  body  in  his  arms, 
5* 


I06  SONGS   OF    SUMMER. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   PRAYER. 

If  there  is  any  thing  that  will  endure 

The  eye  of  God,  because  it  still  is  pure, 

It  is  the  spirit  of  a  little  child, 

Fresh  from  his  hand,  and  therefore  undefiled. 

Nearer  the  gate  of  Paradise  than  we. 

Our  children  breathe  its  airs,  its  angels  see  ; 

And  when  they  pray  God  hears  their  simple  prayer, 

Yea,  even  sheathes  his  sword,  in  judgment  bare. 

Witness  this  story  of  a  by-gone  time. 

Itself  a  song,  though  yet  untold  in  rhyme. 

Where  stretches  Egypt,  and  its  gardens  smile, 
Won  from  the  desert  by  the  lordly  Nile, 
Famine  and  Pestilence  went  hand  in  hand 
Of  old,  and  ravaged  that  unhappy  land  ; 
For  lo,  the  Nile,  wherein  its  plenty  lies. 
The  fertilizing  Nile  forgot  to  rise. 
Day  after  day  it  lay,  a  sluggish  flood. 
And  slimy  monsters  wallowed  in  its  mud. 
When  spread  the  news,  and  ill  news  fly  apace, 
A  fearful  panic  seized  the  Moslem  race, 
For  not  alone  its  native  tribes  it  fed. 
But  all  the  East  to  Egypt  looked  for  bread. 
In  Cairo  first,  there  most  improvident. 
Then  in  the  towns,  and  in  the  wandering  tent, 
Under  the  palms,  by  many  a  shrunken  well, 
Fainting  they  fell,  and  perished  where  they  fell. 

At  first  they  only  starved  ;  but  by  and  by 
A  dread  infection  brooded  in  the  sky  : 
There  was  no  time  to  starve,  with  every  breath 
They  drew  in  death,  a  tainted,  loathsome  death. 


THE   CHILDREN  S   PRAYER.  lO/ 

All  business  ceased  ;  bazaars  and  mosques  were  closed  ; 

Somewhere  about  his  tower  the  muezzin  dozed. 

No  more  the  faithful  bowed  towards  the  East, 

Was  kept  no  more  the  Bairam's  sacred  feast  : 

(The  fasts,  alas,  they  could  not  help  but  keep  !) 

The  land  was  shrouded  in  a  deathly  sleep. 

You  might  have  walked  through  Cairo,  street  by  street 

Nor  met  a  soul, — 'twere  better  not  to  meet  : 

The  flying  thief,  the  murderer  abhorred, 

Or  plague-struck  beggars — such  were  those  abroad. 

At  length  a  sheik  remembered  what  was  writ, 
(Through  faith  not  doubt  had  he  forgotten  it). 
That  "  Children  are  the  keys  of  Paradise." 
Also  that  "  They  alone  are  good  and  wise, 
Because  their  thoughts,  their  very  lives  are  prayer." 
He  sought  the  mosque,  summoned  the  people  there, 
Told  them  his  thought,  and  made  its  meaning  plain, 
That  they  by  childish  lips  should  pray  again. 
'Twas  said,  and  done  :   the  Emir  gave  command, 
And  straight  the  muezzins  sang  it  through  the  land. 

The  hour  was  fixed  at  dawn.     At  last  dawn  came. 
Slowly  the  sun  arose,  a  globe  of  flame 
Struggling  with  blood-red  clouds  :   in  every  street 
Was  seen  a  crowd,  was  heard  the  tramp  of  feet  : 
Around  the  mosques  they  gathered  with  a  sigh. 
Waiting  to  know  if  they  should  live — or  die. 
The  Imauns  crowned  the  babes  with  early  flowers, 
And  bore  them  up  the  minarets  and  towers, 
Even  to  their  topmost  summits,  where  they  stood. 
And  saw  the  Pyramids  and  Nile's  black  flood, 
And  Cairo  at  their  feet,  a  breathless  mass, 
Dying  to  hear  them  pray,  and  see  what  came  to  pass. 
It  was  a  beautiful  but  solemn  sight 
To  mark  the  trembling  children  robed  in  white, 
Painted  against  the  red  and  angry  sky, 


108  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Stretching  their  arms  to  Him  who  dwells  on  high. 

But  there  they  stood,  and  there  they  knelt  and  prayed, 

And  from  that  hour  the  pestilence  was  stayed. 

For  while  they  prayed  there  came  a  rush  of  wind 

That  rent  the  clouds,  and  showed  the  sun  behind  ; 

They  saw  its  broad,  bright  light,  and  seemed  to  hear 

The  wave  of  palms,  the  flow  of  waters  near. 

Yes,  it  was  true  :  the  Nile  began  to  rise, 

As  if  its  springs  were  fed  from  the  benignant  skies  ! 

It  rose,  and  rolled,  and  ran  before  the  breeze, 

Its  long  waves  furrowed  like  the  stormy  seas. 

Its  mud  was  swept  away,  its  monsters  sank, 

It  swayed  and  snapped  the  reeds  along  the  bank, 

Raging  and  roaring,  rising  higher  and  higher, 

Far-flaming  in  the  sun — a  sheet  of  windy  fire ! 

All  wept  with  joy.     And  now  there  came  a  man 

Wild  with  good  news  ;  he  shouted  as  he  ran, 

"  There  is  no  God  but  God.     Lo,  God  is  Great. 

There  stands  a  row  of  camels  at  the  gate, 

Laden  for  all  with  sacks  of  wheat  and  grain." 

They  fell  upon  their  knees  and  wept  again. 

But  they,  the  children,  meek  and  undefiled, 

Went  through  the  streets,  and  smote  their  hands  and  smiled. 

Nor  was  there  longer  plague  or  famine  there. 

Thanks  be  to  God,  who  heard  the  Children's  Prayer  ! 


By  the  margent  of  the  sea 
I  would  build  myself  a  home. 

Where  the  mighty  waters  be, 
On  the  edges  of  their  foam. 

Ribs  of  sands  should  be  the  mounds 
In  my  grounds  ; 


"BY   THE   MARGENT   OF   THE   SEA."  IO9 

My  grasses  should  be  ocean  weeds, 

Strung  with  pulpy  beads  ; 
And  my  blossoms  should  be  shells, 

Bleaching  white, 
Washed  from  ocean's  deepest  cells 

By  the  billows  morn  and  night. 
Morn  and  night — in  both  their  light, 

Up  and  down  the  paven  sand, 
I  would  tramp,  while  Day's  great  lamp 

Rose  or  set,  on  sea  and  land. 
Through  a  sea  of  vapors  dark 
Glimmering  like  a  burning  bark. 
Drifting  o'er  its  yawning  tomb 
With  a  red  and  lurid  gloom. 
Seldom  should  the  morning's  gold 
On  the  waters  be  unrolled. 
Or  the  troubled  queen  of  night 
Lift  her  misty  veil  of  light. 
Neither  wholly  dark,  nor  bright. 
Gray  by  day,  and  gray  by  night — 
That's  the  light,  the  sky  for  me, 
By  the  margent  of  the  sea. 

From  my  window,  when  I  rose 

In  the  morning,  1  would  mark 
The  gray  sea  in  its  endless  throes, 

And  many  a  bark. 
As  I  watched  the  pallid  sails. 

Bearing  naught  to  me  or  mine, 
I  would  conjure  up  the  gales 

Soon  to  draggle  them  in  brine  : 
Then,  my  cloak  about  my  face, 
Up  and  down  the  sands  would  pace, 
Making  footprints  for  the  spray 
To  wash  away. 


no  SOXGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Waves  might  break  along  the  shore, 

And  thunders  roar  ; 
I  should  only  hear  aghast 
The  solemn  moaning  of  the  Past. 
And   if  storms  should  come,  and  rain 

Pour  in  torrents  down  the  sky, 
What  care  1  ? 
What  cares  any  one   in  pain  ? 

Are  not  tears  still  wrung  from  me, 
Woe  is  me,  and  all  in   vain. 
Falling  faster  than  the  rain 

In  the  sea? 
But  it  would  be  over  then, 

And  I  would  no  longer  weep  : 
Grief  is  for  the  sea  of  men, 

By  God's  ocean  it  must  sleep. 
Happy,  happy  would  I  be 
By  the  margent  of  the  sea. 

Up  and  down  the  barren  beaches, 

Round  the  ragged  belts  of  land, 
In  along  the  curving  reaches. 

Out  along  the  horns  of  sand. 
Over  the  ledges  of  the  rocks. 
Where  the  surges  comb  their  locks, 
And  their  wreathed  buds  remain. 

Not  to  bloom  again  ; 
Many  a  league  and  hour  I  stray. 
And  watch  the  madness  of  the  spray. 

The  caverns  in  its  wall  ; 
Its  flame-like  currents  mounting  slow, 
Its  rounding  crest  of  frothy  snow. 

Its  crumbling  fall  ; 
The  climbing  sun  in  light  betrayed 
By  a  spot  of  thinnest  shade ; 


CHORIC    IIVMN.  I  I  I 

The  tossing  foam,  the  wandering  plain 

Of  the  melancholy  main  ; 

The  sea-mew  darting  everywhere, 

Now  on  the  water,  and  now  in  the  air, 

Vexing  me  with  frantic  scream, 

Like  a  phantom  in  a  dream — 

In  dreams  I  do  behold  them  all. 

Mixed  with  wave  and  wind  ; 
But   hardly  know,  so    strange    they  seem, 
Whether  I  behold  them  there, 
Or  the  sorrow  and  despair 

In  my  mind, 
Wandering  where  its  tortures  be, 
By  the  margent  of  the  sea. 


CHORIC   HYMN. 

The  little  birds  awake  at  peep  of  day, 

When  soft  winds  shake  their  nests,  and  leaves  are  stirred 

The  buds  unseal  their  lids  beneath  the  spray, 

Called  by  the  dews,  by  mortal  ears  unheard. 

But  thou,  though  we  have  called  thee,  over-loud. 

Thrice  with  our  shrillest  voices,  thou  art  mute  : 

But  we  will  touch  the  lute. 
And  melt  the  dream  that  wraps  thee  like  a  cloud. 
We  passed  along  the  borders  of  the  vale, 
And  peeped  into  it  from  the  misty  hill  ; 
Far  in  its  depths  we  heard  the  nightingale 
Muffled  in  song  ;  we  hear  him  singing  still. 
And  when  pale  Hesperos  with  silver  crook 
Led  forth  his  starry  flock  from  out  their  fold, 
We  wept  together  in  the  bosky  nook, 
And  linked  our  hearts  with  kisses,  each  thrice  told. 


112  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Hast  thou  forgot  our  kisses,  and  thine  own  ? 

(We  dreamed  of  those  sweet  kisses  all  the  night !) 

Forgot  thy  loving  maidens,  chaste  and  white  ? 

Forgot  the  vale,  whose  depths  are  yet  unknown  ? 

It  cannot  be!     Awake,  and  answer  "No!" 

O  answer  "  No  !  "    or  we  must  wake,  and  weep  : 

Give  us  a  little  sign,  before  we  go, 

That  we  are  not  forgotten  in  thy  sleep. 

Think  of  us  one  and  all  as  we  of  thee, 

Both  now,  and  evermore,  Persephone. 

Harken,  our  lutes  are  strung  with  silver  wires, 

That  nicely  suit  the  strain  ; 
Our  voices  melt  therein  like  soft  desires, 
Or  South  winds  dying  in  a  vernal  rain. 
The  sky-lark  listens  in  the  woods  apart. 
Since  twilight  sleeping  in  the  falling  dew, 
And  hoards  our  music  in  his  brimming  heart, 
Meaning  a  sweet  repayment  from  the  blue. 
But  thou  art  bound  in  slumber,  deaf  to  all. 
Mute  as  a  little  maid  beneath  her  pall, 
Heedless  of  dear  ones  coming  there  to  weep. 
Locked  in  the  cold  and  everlasting  sleep. 
If  such  should  be  thy  sleep,  O  what  should  we 
Say  to  Demeter,  in  her  woe  divine  ? 
And  to  our  hearts,  and  all  that  ask  and  pine. 
For  all  would  then  demand  Persephone. 

Hark,  hear  ye  not  a  stirring  in  her  bower, 
A  rustling  in  the  dimness  of  the  leaves  ? 
Ah  yes,  and  see,  the  morning  in  its  eaves. 
Braids  through  the  twinkling  green  a  golden  shower. 
Strike  all  your  lutes  again,  and  break  the  bands 
That  Sleep  has  woven  round  her  in  the  night ; 
Let  melting  Music  with  her  loving  hands 
Slowly  unwind  his  tangled  skeins  of  light. 


THE   FISHER   AND    CHARON.  II3 

Up-gathering  all  thy  poppies,  drowsy-sweet, 
And  all  thy  syrop-urns  of  mandragore, 
Fly,  Morpheos,  fly,  ere  Morning's  winged  feet. 
Fire-sandalled,  bear  him  to  thy  palace  door. 

Where  waiting  thee  thy  Dreams 
Still  linger,  blinded  by  his  dazzling  beams ; 
Fly,  Morpheos,  fly,  with  heavy-lidded  eyes, 
The  night  is  done,  the  maiden  would  arise. 
Awake,  Persephone!     The  finches  round 
Chirp  to  the  swallows  twittering  overhead  ; 
And  little  crickets  answer  from  the  ground, 
Hidden  in  tufted  mosses,  crisp  and  red. 
Awake,  awake  !     Let  sluggards  weak  and  gray 
Before  their  time  drowse  out  the  morning  hours ; 
Health-loving  maids  are  up  before  the  day, 
To  trample  in  the  dew,  and  gather  flowers. 
Flowers  grow  around  in  myriads,  even  here, 
In  this  dark  forest,  beaded  thick  with  dew, 
They  call  for  thee  within  thy  spirit's  ear, 
And  all  the  happy  birds  are  calling,  too  ; 
And  we  thy  loving  maids,  so  dear  to  thee  : 
Then  wake  and  rise,  O  rise,  divine  Persephone  ! 


THE   FISHER   AND    CHARON. 

Where  wild  Laconia  juts  into  the  sea 

The  fisher  Diotimus  had  his  home. 

Between  the  waters  and  the  woods  it  stood, 

A  wattled  hut,  whose  floor  was  strewn  with  leaves 

And  crisp,  dry  sea-weeds  :    when  the  tide  came  in 

The  surf  ran  up  the  beach  even  to  the  door. 

Here  lived  the  fisher  and  his  aged  wife, 

Doro,  his  second  self;    she  on  the  land, 


114  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

And  he  upon  the  sea,  their  long  Uves  passed. 
He  rose  at  early  dawn  and  dragged  his  boat 
Down  to  the  water's  edge,  threw  in  his  oars, 
His  lines,  and  bait,  and  then  with  lusty  strokes 
Pulled  out  into  the  gulf  through  clouds  of  mist. 
From  shore  to  shore  he  knew  the  gulf,  the  rocks, 
The  curling  eddies  and  the  isles  of  weed. 
He  knew  the  haunts  and  habits  of  the  fish, 
How  best  to  catch  them,  and  the  bait  they  loved  ; 
The  sea-birds,  too,  his  fellow  fishers,  they, 
He  knew  them  all.     From  Tenarus  to  Crete, 
And  where  the  beaches  of  Egilia  break 
The  shining  surge  which  dies  among  their  shells. 
He  tracked  the  scaly  tenants  of  the  deep. 
The  summer  smote  him  with  its  fiercest  fires. 
Burned  his  old  face,  and  browned  his  sinewy  arms; 
The  winter  nipt  him  with  its  still,  cold  wind, 
And  drenched  his  cloak  of  mats  with  colder  rain. 
For  days  he  saw  no  sun,  so  thick  the  clouds  : 
But,  cloud  or  sun,  he  put  to  sea  at  dawn 
Fearless,  and  with  the  dusk  of  eve  returned. 
The  sunset  was  a  torch  to  light  him  home. 
His  boat  was  guided  by  its  golden  flare 
.Straight  to  the  shore;    he  saw  his  hut  afar, 
.And  Doro  on  the  sands  ;    she  beckoned  him  : 
His  sharp  keel  cut  the  waves,  and  ere  its  wake 
.Sank  in  the  blackness  grated  on  the  sand. 

They  lived  the  common  life  of  little  things 
Summed  up  in  poverty:    like  waves  the  days 
The  years  went  by,  each  day  and  year  alike — 
The  last  alone  remembered.     They  were  young; 
Then  crooked  wrinkles  crept  about  their  eyes: 
Then  they  were  old.     They  lived,  and  loved,  and  died. 
One  autumn  day,  when  tropic  birds  flew  home, 
The  fisher  sat  beside  his  dying  wife. 


THE   FISHER   AND    CHARON.  I15 

She  lay  upon  a  couch  of  withered  leaves 

That  rustled  as  she  moved  ;    above  her  hung 

A  coil  of  line  with  sea-weed  on  its  hooks  ; 

A  wicker  basket  was  the  fisher's  seat. 

Their  dim  eyes  met,  and  both  with  tears  were  wet. 

"  Hereafter,  Doro,  I  shall  weep  alone," 

Said  Diotimus.     "  Not  alone,"  she  moaned, 

"  For  I  shall  walk  the  solemn  shore  of  death 

In  tears  till  you  shall  come."     She  clutched  his  knee, 

Twisted  her  trembling  fingers  in  his  hand. 

Looked  in  his  face,  and  waited  for  the  end. 

The  waters  lapped  the  door  stone,  and  went  back. 

The  tide  was  slowly  setting  out  to  sea, 

Leaving  a  narrow  strip  of  barren  sand. 

When  all  was  over  Diotimus  rose 

And  called  the  fishers'  wives  to  wash  the  dead. 

But  first  he  placed  the  needful  obolus, 

The  ferriage  of  the  dead,  beneath  her  tongue, 

Her  spirit  else  had  wandered  by  the  Styx 

An  hundred  years  among  the  wretched  ghosts. 

They  buried  her  behind  the  fisher's  hut, 

Hard  by  the  wood,  among  its  fallen  leaves. 

The  dead  leaves  rustled  in  the  restless  wind, 

And  mingled  in  the  fisher's  broken  dream. 

It  seemed  to  him  the  leaves  whereon  he  lay 

Were  stirred  that  night.     The  dead  was  by  his  side. 

He  rose  at  dawn,  and  rowed  to  sea  again. 

Scarce  knowing  what  he  did ;  a  league  from  shore 

He  saw  his  net  was  lost,  or  left  behind  : 

He  dropped  his  oar,  and  let  the  crazy  boat 

Drift  as  it  would,  his  idle  thoughts  the  while 

Drifting  about  the  ocean  of  the  Past. 

The  sea-birds  knew  him,  and  no  longer  shy 

Swooped  down,  and  snatched  the  fish  around  his  boat ; 

Yea,  lighted  on  his  boat,  his  very  oars, 


Il6  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

And  screamed,  and  chattered  of  their  briny  loves  : 

He  harmed  them  not,  his  thoughts  were  in  the  Past. 

"  Could  Time  restore  those  days,  or  give  her  back," 

The  fisher  thought,  "  then  I  could  die  in  peace  ; 

But  Time  will  not  restore  them,  nor  will  she 

Return  to  me  :  the  dead  return  no  more. 

But  there's  a  way  to  her,"  the  old  man  thought. 

And  stared  in  the  dark  water.     "Day  and  night 

The  gate  stands  wide  ;  a  sudden  flaw  of  wind 

Might  send  me  through  it,  nay,  a  fish's  fin 

Rubbing  against  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

There  are  a  thousand  doors  that  lead  to  death. 

I  trail  my  fingers  in  the  rippling  brine 

And  dip  my  death ;  a  cup  of  this  salt  wine 

Drained  in  the  sunless  sea  would  end  my  days. 

But  would  it  help  me  to  my  wife  again. 

My  dear,  dear  Doro  ?     Does  she  wait  for  me, 

There  where  my  soul  would  land  ?     I  know  not  that." 

He  stared  in  the  black  water  more  and  more, 

He  saw  the  tangled  weeds,  the  glancing  fish. 

But  Doro  never  ;  only  in  his  dreams 

Did  he  behold  her,  and  she  seemed  to  weep. 

Walking  alone  the  solemn  shores  of  Death ! 

But  now  the  tropic  birds  were  all  flown  home, 
The  autumn  leaves  were  shed,  and  wintry  rains 
Were  sown  in  swelling  seas  ;  cold  blew  the  winds. 
It  was  too  cold  to  live  upon  the  sea  ; 
The  sea  was  full  of  ice,  and  every  spray 
That  lifted  his  frail  boat  froze  on  the  prow. 
Besides  his  boat  grew  frailer  day  by  day  ; 
Old  like  himself,  it  scarcely  rode  the  waves  : 
A  storm  would  swamp  it.     "I  should  find  my  death 
In  the  cold  waters,"  Diotimus  said, 
"  But  not  my  dear,  dead  wife  ;  for  though  I  died 
I  could  not  join  the  souls  across  the  Styx, 


THE   FISHER   AND    CHARON.  11/ 

So  poor  am  I.     I  have  no  obolus 
To  fee  old  Charon."     So  he  sought  the  shore. 
He  hung  his  nets  and  lines  within  the  hut 
Stiffened  with  frost,  made  up  his  bed  of  leaves, 
And  gathered  fagots  in  the  windy  wood 
To  feed  his  fire  ;  he  walked  the  bleak,  bare  wood. 
Lone  as  the  wind  that  snapped  the  withered  limbs  ; 
Also  the  barren  beach,  the  stretch  of  sand 
Close  to  the  tumbling  wall  of  roaring  surf. 
The  surf,  and  sand,  and  melancholy  wood 
Troubled  him  less,  so  waste  and  grim  were  they, 
Than  did  the  hut ;  the  memory  of  the  dead 
Peopled  the  lonely  hut,  and  filled  his  thoughts. 
He  seemed  to  see,  or  saw,  his  vanished  wife 
About  her  household  duties  all  the  day. 
She  mended  nets,  she  spun,  she  built  his  fires  ; 
At  night  he  dreamed  of  her  ;  when  the  wind  blew 
'Twas  she  who  shook  his  door  :  when  fell  the  rain, 
Trickling  upon  him  through  the  crumbling  roof, 
'Twas  she  who  wept — the  tears  he  felt  were  hers  : 
She  was  the  ghost  of  moonlight  on  the  wall. 

"  I  can  no  longer  bear  this  loss  of  mine, 
Here  where  it  came  upon  me  :  I  must  go. 
Whither  I  know  not,  but  to  sea,  to  sea  ; 
There  is  no  rest,  no  peace  for  me  on  land. 
The  winter  winds  may  freeze  me,  or  the  isles 
Of  ice  may  crush  my  boat  ;   I  can  but  die. 
But  die  I  shall  not  yet,  for  I  must  seek 
Charon,  and  ask  him  to  forego  his  fee  ; 
Not  else  can  rest  be  mine  when  I  am  dead." 
So  spake  the  fisher  one  gray  winter's  day. 
And  straightway  put  to  sea  :  the  isles  of  ice 
Parted  before  his  prow  and  closed  astern  ; 
Behind  the  noisy  shocks  of  spray  his  hut 
Grew  less  and  less  :  it  disappeared  :  the  beach 


Il8  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Sank  in  the  sea  :  the  woods  alone  were  left — 
The  long,  dark  belt  of  woods  and  ragged  hills. 

At  noon  he  doubled  Tenarus,  and  beat 
Northward  along  Laconia's  western  shore. 
Somewhere  along  the  shore,  Tradition  said, 
Within  a  gorge  the  gates  of  Hades  rose  ; 
Where,  no  man  knew — such  knowledge  suits  not  life. 
Death  brooded  round  that  awful  shore  and  sea. 
The  dreary  woods  were  dead  ;  nor  leaf,  nor  limb 
Stirred  in  the  strong  north  wind  that  filled  the  sky  : 
Beaches  were  none,  but  rocks,  a  wall  of  rock, 
With  gaping  caverns  where  the  sea  was  lost. 
No  surf,  no  crested  wave,  no  rippled  swell 
Wrinkled  the  sea's  broad  plain,  and  yet  it  moved, 
Swept  shoreward  like  a  wind.     There  was  a  gulf 
Between  two  barren  mountains  whose  black  jaws 
Devoured  the  light ;  to  this  the  current  set. 
Bearing  the  fisher's  boat :  for  though  his  oars 
Lay  on  the  thwarts,  and  all  his  sails  were  furled, 
He  drove  before  the  wind  to  the  inner  land. 
Soon  as  he  passed  that  portal  of  the  sea 
There  came  a  change  ;  the  thought  that  led  him  on 
Slackened,  his  mind  grew  weak,  a  drowsy  weight 
Hung  on  his  lids  :  it  was  as  he  had  crossed 
The  leaden  portals  of  the  Land  of  Sleep. 
All  memory  of  his  former  life  was  lost. 
Sunk  in  his  dream  :  only  a  sense  of  loss 
Lived  in  his  soul,  a  vague  and  muffled  grief. 
He  bathed  his  eyes  in  that  mysterious  stream 
To  break  his  slumber ;  down  his  wrinkled  cheek 
The  water  trickled,  and  he  tasted  it  : 
'Twas  sweet  and  bitter  like  forgetfulness, 
A  bitter  sweet  :  he  knew  the  river  then — 
Lethe,  whose  dreadful  waters  lead  to  Death ! 

At  last  the  current  emptied  in  the  Styx — 


THE   FISHER   AND    CHARON.  II9 

A  sluggish  lake,  whose  nearer  bank  alone 

Was  seen  ;  in  mist  the  farther  bank  was  hid. 

He  took  his  oars,  and  rowed  to  Charon's  wharf. 

A  line  of  sickly  willows  fringed  the  shore, 

Their  ragged  tresses  draggling  in  the  scum 

That  mantled  the  grim  pool ;  a  ghostly  rank 

Of  poplars,  like  a  halted  train  of  shades, 

Trembled ;  on  one  a  raven  sat,  and  slept. 

And  here  and  there  were  single  ghostly  shapes. 

That  wandered  up  and  down  like  morning  mists  ; 

Others  from  somewhere  inland  through  a  gorge 

Drifted  and  drifted  down  to  Charon's  wharf. 

Charon  himself  was  in  his  dusky  barge, 

Just  touching  land — returned  from  Hades  :  still 

The  furrow  of  his  wake  was  on  the  scum. 

His  beard  was  long  and  ragged,  and  his  hair 

Hung  o'er  his  brows  ;  the  wrinkles  of  his  face 

Seemed  carved  in  bronze  or  stone  :  a  stony  light 

Glinted  in  his  hard  eyes  whose  steady  frown 

Looked  pity  dead  :  no  pity  Charon  knew. 

"What  man  art  thou?    and  wherefore  art  thou  come?" 

"  My  name  is  Diotimus,  and  my  home 
Is  in  Laconia  ;  Doro  was  my  wife. 
She  died  :  you  ferried  her  across  the  Styx." 

"  Perchance,  old  man  :  but  now  so  many  cross 
I  cannot  long  remember  single  souls, 
Or  queens,  or  fisher's  wives  :  but  get  thee  back, 
The  dead  and  not  the  living  come  to  me." 
So  Charon  said,  and  waved  the  fisher  back. 

"Not  back  to  earth  again,  O  say  not  that! 
He  who  has  lived  for  threescore  years  and  ten. 
So  old  am  I,  and  lived  the  poor  man's  life, 
Once  freed  therefrom,  not  willingly  returns. 
From  youth  to  age  upon  the  dangerous  sea 
My  days  were  passed  ;  by  suns  of  summer  scorched. 


I20  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

By  winds  of  winter  numbed  ;  and  tempests  rose, 

Great  whirlwinds  in  the  sky,  and  in  the  sea 

Chasms  and  gulfs  of  night  ;  but  all  I  bore. 

For  Doro  lived  ;  but  now  that  she  is  dead 

I  long  to  die — there  is  no  joy  in  life  : 

Pity  me,  then,  and  let  me  cross  the  Styx." 

'■'■He  will  7wt  pity  thee,''  a  shadowy  Voice 
Breathed  from  the  shore,  "  but  rather  mock  thy  grief . 
There  is  no  mercy  shoivii  to  men  in  life, 
Why  should  they  look  for  any  after  death  f  " 
Beneath  the  poplar  where  the  raven  sat 
This  hopeless  Voice  to  Diotimus  croaked : 
The  raven  heard,  and  answered  in  his  dream. 
Meantime  the  wandering  shapes  had  gathered  round 
To  watch  the  issue  ;  thin  at  first  as  smoke. 
Against  the  swaying  willow  branches  drawn. 
Their  dim  uncertain  outlines  surer  grew. 
Grew  firm  and  certain  :  wrapt  in  long  white  robes. 
That  swept  the  ground  and  o'er  their  faces  fell 
Hood-like,  they  stood:  the  wretched  dead  were  they, 
That  wander  by  the  Styx  an  hundred  years. 
"  I  bear  the  dead  alone  across  the  Styx," 
Charon  replied,  and  smiled  a  grim,  dark  smile  ; 
"  Only  the  dead,  nor  all  the  dead,  you  see. 
Prayers  have  been  said  to  me,  tears  have  been  shed 
For  ages,  as  ye  reckon  time  on  earth  ; 
In  vain :  I  heed  not  human  tears  or  prayers. 
Great  kings  have  laid  their  sceptre  at  my  feet. 
Pale  queens  have  knelt  to  me  and  wrung  their  hands, 
To  die  before  their  time  :   I  sent  them  back. 
What  man  art  thou  that  I  should  let  thee  cross  ? 
Go  back,  and  live  the  remnant  of  thy  life  : 
Live  till  the  lords  of  life  shall  let  thee  die. 
It  cannot  now  be  long,  then  come  to  me  ; 
Not  as  thou  comest  now,  but  with  the  dead. 


THE  nSIIER   AND    CHARON.  121 

Come  with  an  obolus,  and  thou  shalt  cross." 

"  I  have  no  obolus,  but  I  shall  cross," 
The  fisher  said,  "  for  Doro  waits  for  me." 

Above  the  dead  the  silent  willows  leaned  ; 
The  air  was  hushed  ;  except  the  poplar  rods, 
High  over  all,  naught  stirred  :    the  poplars  shook, 
Reached  by  the  couriers  of  a  coming  wind. 
Or  some  impending  doom  !     A  wind  of  doom 
Swept  through  the  gorge  behind  them,  driving  on 
A  sea  of  spirits  and  the  noise  of  war  : 
In  war  two  mighty  kingdoms  then  were  met ; 
These  were  the  flower  of  both,  slain  in  the  shock. 
Rushing  from  life  to  death  they  threw  themselves 
Straight  into  Charon's  barge — or  would  have  thrown— 
But  that  his  oar  uplifted  kept  them  off. 
And  now  while  clamor  and  confusion  reigned, 
Unseen,  the  wary  fisher  seized  his  oars 
And  pulled  for  the  farther  shore  :    before  his  prow 
The  scum  was  thick,  and  thick  the  matted  weeds 
Below  the  sliding  keel  :    a  faint  dead  scent 
Burthened  the  waste;    nor  wave  nor  ripple  there, 
He  tore  his  way  through  slime  at  every  stroke. 
Of  all  the  slaughtered  dead  that  stormed  his  barge 
Not  one  would  Charon  ferry  o'er  the  Styx, 
For  all  were  yet  unburied  in  the  field. 
He  stretched  his  hand  in  vain  ;    no  burial  fee 
Dropped  in  his  greedy  palm  ;    he  drove  them  back. 
A  single  ghost,  a  slave  that  died  in  peace. 
Wealthier  with  one  poor  obolus  than  they, 
Heroes,  and  valiant  captains,  kings  of  war, 
Stepped  in  the  barge,  and  sat  at  Charon's  feet. 
The  barge  was  turned,  and  now  began  the  chase ; 
For  Charon  now  the  fisher  missed,  and  saw 
His  laboring  boat  half-way  across  the  stream  : 
He  bent  him  to  his  oars  that  rose  and  fell, 
6 


122  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Faster  and  faster  raining  strokes  that  shook 

The  sea  of  scum,  and  dashed  its  turbid  waves, 

Shouting  great  shouts  to  fright  the  daring  man  : 

The  shouts  o'ertook  the  fisher  in  his  flight, 

And  fright  a  httle  moment  chilled  his  heart. 

But  soon  was  strangled  by  the  iron  will 

That  nerved  his  arm,  half  hope  and  half  despair  : 

The  crazy  boat  was  strained  in  every  seam. 

And  slow,  great  drops  oozed  through  her  trembling  sides  ; 

But  not  the  less  she  flew,  pursed  by  shouts, 

And  frowning  Charon  in  his  gloomy  barge. 

But  now  the  mist  that  veiled  the  further  bank 
Grew  thin  and  thinner,  and  the  fisher  caught 
The  shore  beyond,  a  green,  low-lying  shore, 
Deep  meadows,  uplands,  slopes,  and  happy  woods 
Steeped  through  and  through  with  light ;  and  stately  Shapes 
That  came  and  went  like  gods  :    but  one  was  still, 
Hushed  as  a  statute  frozen  in  the  moon. 
It  looked  a  woman,  and  her  marble  eye 
Drank  in  that  breathless  chase  across  the  Styx. 
"  Doro  !  "  the  fisher  shouted,  as  he  neared 
The  happy  shore  ;    the  figure  seemed  to  hear  : 
"  Doro,  dear  Doro  !  " — but  the  rest  was  lost. 
For  Charon  now  had  reached  the  fisher's  boat — 
His  black  barge  struck  it  :    down  it  sank  like  lead. 
The  fisher  with  it  :    but  he  rose  again, 
Breasting  the  surges  to  the  blessed  shore 
Where  Doro  stood,  and  stretched  her  hands  to  him. 
He  lands — she  falls  upon  his  neck,  and  weeps  : 
Then  hand  in  hand,  their  happy  tears  forgot, 
The  smiling  spirits  go  to  meet  their  judge. 
But  Charon  goes  back  angry  to  the  deadl 


GREAT  AND   SMALL.  123 


GREAT  AND   SMALL. 

A  LITTLE  plot  of  garden  ground 
Grew  envious  of  bordering  bowers, 
That  cast  their  shade  upon  its  flowers, 

And  thus  its  thoughts  an  utterance  found  : 

"  I  envy  you,  ye  stately  bowers, 
Your  royal  growths  of  trunk  and  bough. 
With  all  the  blooms  that  cluster  now 

Thereon,  and  those  that  fall  in  showers. 

Far  in  the  heavens  ye  lift  your  heads, 
Whatever  wind  blows,  O,  ye  trees  ! 
But  these  my  flowers,  the  lightest  breeze 

Dashes  them  on  their  dusty  beds. 

Within  your  branches  lodge  the  birds. 
Rebuilding  nests,  and  chanting  lays ; 
And  in  your  shade  when  summer  days 

Are  sultry  lie  the  drowsy  herds. 

Around  my  stalks  the  insects  creep, 
Over  my  buds  the  beetles  run, 
With  moths  that  die  when  day  is  done, 

And  bees  that  hum  themselves  asleep. 

Not  all  unloved  by  me  the  bees. 
Draining  my  cups  of  honey  dry  : 
But  what  are  they,  and  what  am  I, 

To  herds,  and  birds,  and  giant  trees  ?  " 


124  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

But  Nature,  listening,  ''  Thou  art  wrong," 
Did  say  reproving:    "Wrong,"  the  herds; 
And  "  Wrong,"  the  many -voiced  birds 

Interpolated  in  their  song. 

"  There  is  no  difference  with  me," 
Was  whispered  in  the  garden's  ear. 
"  The  smallest  blossom  is  as  dear 

To  Nature  as  the  greatest  tree. 

The  pine  and  oak  are  only  flowers 

Grown  large  :    they  drink  the  beads  of  dew 
Like  little  violets,  meek  and  blue, 

And  battle  with  the  stormy  powers. 

The  insect  with  its  gauzy  wings 

Sings,  and  the  moth  and  beetle  grim  ; 
And  for  the  bee,  I  doat  on  him. 

And  know  by  heart  the  tune  he  sings. 

Then  learn  this  truth,  the  base  of  all, 
That  all  are  equal,  so  they  fill 
Their  proper  spheres,  and  do  God's  will  : 

There  is  no  other  Great,  or  Small." 


THE   POPLAR. 

The  poplar-tree  that  guards  my  house 

Looks  in  on  me  to-night. 
As  if  it  would  divide  my  shade. 
Though  based  itself  in  light. 
Alas,  poor  tree. 
It  knows  not  me — 
A  mystery  few  explain  aright. 


THE   POPLAR.  125 

It  stands  out  in  the  lamp-light  there, 

And  shakes  its  twinkling  leaves, 
And  whatsoever  the  heavens  send 
It  patiently  receives. 
Rain,  hail,  or  snow, 
All  winds  that  blow — 
Whatever  comes  it  never  grieves. 

For  me,  I  cannot  say  the  like, 

For  I  do  grieve  and  pine  ; 
There's  not  an  hour  but  stirs  a  pang 
In  this  weak  heart  of  mine  : 
Even  Pleasure  pains. 
And  Love  contains — 
How  much  of  sorrow,  though  divine. 

Even  now  they  fill  my  aching  heart 

With  niingled  gloom  and  flame  ; 
And  yet  the  poplar  envies  me 
My  woe  without  a  name. 
It  sees  my  tears. 
Conceives  my  fears, 
And  yearns  to  bear  the  same. 

No,  poplar,  no,  rest  where  you  are 

In  wiser  Nature's  plan  ; 
Man  suffers  so  'tis  happier 
To  be  a  tree  than  man. 
Your  time  will  come. 
Your  martyrdom  : 
Till  then  contented,  happy  be, 
Nor  seek  to  share  my  life  with  me. 


126  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 


MISERRIMUS. 

He  has  passed  away 

From  a  world  of  strife, 
Fighting  the  wars  of  Time  and  Life. 
The  leaves  will  fall  when  the  winds  are  loud, 
And  the  snows  of  winter  will  weave  his  shroud 
But  he  will  never,  ah,  never  know 

Any  thing  more 

Of  leaves  or  snow. 

The  summer-tide 

Of  his  life  was  past, 
And  his  hopes  were  fading,  falling  fast. 
His  faults  were  many,  his  virtues  few, 
A  tempest  with  flecks  of  heaven's  blue. 
He  might  have  soared  to  the  gates  of  light, 

But  he  built  his  nest 

With  the  birds  of  night. 

He  glimmered  apart 

In  solemn  gloom, 
Like  a  dying  lamp  in  a  haunted  tomb. 
He  touched  his  lute  with  a  magic  spell, 
But  all  his  melodies  breathed  of  hell, 
Raising  the  Afrits  and  the  Ghouls, 

And  the  pallid  ghosts 

Of  the  damned  souls. 

But  he  lies  in  dust, 

And  the  stone  is  rolled 
Over  his  sepulchre  dark  and  cold. 
He  has  cancelled  all  he  has  done,  or  said, 


THE   SQUIRE   OF   LOW   DEGREE.  1 2/ 

And  gone  to  the  dear  and  holy  Dead. 
Let  us  forget  the  path  he  trod, 

He  has  done  with  us, 

He  has  gone  to  God. 


THE  SQUIRE  OF  LOW  DEGREE. 

The  royal  sunlight  flushed  the  room, 

From  stained  windows  streaming  down, 
To  where,  rayed  round  in  golden  gloom. 

The  old  king  sat,  and  tried  to  frown. 
Before  him  stood  his  daughter  dear. 

Her  white  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
And  in  her  drooping  eyes  a  tear. 

The  sign  of  love,  and  love''s  unrest : 
For  she  was  grieved  as  only  maids  can  be, 
That  love,  and  lose,  like  her,  a  Squire  of  Low  Degree. 

[THE   KING   SPEAKS.] 

"  To-morrow  we  ride  with  all  our  train 

To  meet  our  cousin  of  Aquitain  ; 

Be  ready,  daughter,  to  go  with  us  there, 

At  the  head  of  the  train  in  a  royal  chair. 

The  chair  shall  be  covered  with  velvet  red, 

With  a  fringed  canopy  overhead, 

And  curtains  of  damask,  white  and  blue. 

Figured  with  lilies  and  silver  dew. 

Your  robe  must  be  purple,  with  ermine  bands, 

The  finest  fur  of  the  northern  lands  : 

Enamelled  chains  of  rare  device, 

And  your  feather  a  bird  of  Paradise. 


128  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

And  what  will  you  have  for  a  dainty  steed  ? 

A  Flanders  mare  of  the  royal  breed  ? 

An  English  blood  ?     A  jennet  of  Spain  ? 

Or  a  Barbary  foal  with  a  coal-black  mane  ? 

We  still  have  the  Soldan's  harness,  Sweet  : 

The  housings  hang  to  the  horse's  feet, 

The  saddle-cloth  is  sown  with  moons, 

And  the  bridle-bells  jingle  the  blythest  tunes. 

Or  will  you  on  a  palfrey  go  ? 

An  ambling  palfrey,  sure  and  slow, 

That  shakes  its  head  at  every  tread, 

And  tosses  its  heavy  mane  of  snow  ? 

Speak,  my  daughter !  Or  will  you  stay, 

And  make  it  a  happy  hunting  day? 

The  huntsmen  shall  be  gathered  at  dawn, 

And  the  hounds  led  out  upon  the  lawn  ; 

When  you  and  your  bevy  of  dames  appear. 

We'll  spur  our  steeds,  and  chase  the  deer  : 

Through  meadows  through  woods  away  we'll  go, 

And  shout  while  the  merry  bugles  blow. 

Or  you  shall  lead  us  where  you  will, 

Down  in  the  valley,  or  up  the  hill  : 

Speak,  and  the  hawks  shall  wait  you  there. 

And  a  noble  quarry  in  the  air. 

And  O,  but  you  are  a  lady  bright, 

On  a  green  hill's  side  in  the  morning  light, 

Your  rosy  cheek  by  the  soft  wind  kissed. 

And  a  dappled  falcon  on  your  wrist. 

After  the  chase  we'll  feast  in  the  hall. 

Under  the  antlers  on  the  wall  ; 

The  trumpet  shall  wake  its  golden  sound, 

And  the  butler  bear  the  dishes  round. 

Ribs  of  beef,  so  crisp  and  brown, 

And  a  jug  of  Rhenish  to  wash  it  down. 

Hares,  and  pheasants,  and  venison  steaks, 


THE    SQUIRE   OE   LOW   DEGREE.  1 29 

And  a  boar  with  his  skin  pcchng  off  in  flakes, 
And,  to  crown  the  whole,  a  peacock  dressed, 
With  its  starry  plumes  and  a  gilded  crest. 
For  you  and  the  maids,  a  store  of  spice, 
Cloves,  and  the  seed  of  Paradise, 
Pots  of  ginger  from  over  the  seas. 
Honeycombs  from  the  English  trees. 
Plumbs,  dim-seen  through  their  misty  streaks, 
And  dishes  of  peaches  with  bloomy  cheeks, 
Pears  that  smack  of  the  sunny  South, 
And  cherries,  red  as  a  maiden's  mouth  ! 
Grapes  in  salvers,  with  sprigs  of  vine, 
And  wine,  wine,  a  river  of  wine. 
Ripe  and  old,  and  brave  and  bold, 
In  cups  of  silver,  and  flagons  of  gold, 
Red  from  Bordeaux,  white  from  the  Rhine, 
Rumney,  and  Malmsey,  and  Malespine— 
Every  vintage  of  famous  wine  !  " 

[THE   PRINCESS   ANSWERS.] 

"  But  I  would  rather  have,"  said  she, 
"  My  loving  Squire  of  Low  Degree  ; 
Nor  gaudy  trains,  nor  days  of  chase. 
Reward  me  for  his  absent  face. 
They  do  but  bring  him  back  again, 
And  all  the  Past,  a  double  pain. 
I  see  him  now,  he  is  my  page, 
A  dreamy  boy  of  tender  age  : 
His  hair  is  long,  and  bright  as  gold, 
And  in  his  eyes  are  depths  untold. 
'Tis  dangerous,  believe  me.  Sire, 

The  growth  of  two  young  hearts  like  ours  : 
We  grow  like  flowers,  and  bear  desire, 

The  odor  of  the  human  flowers. 
6* 


I30  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Eyes  tell  the  tale,  though  lips  say  naught, 
And  it  colors  the  very  springs  of  thought ;   ' 
I  thought  of  him,  and  he  of  me, 
The  daring  Squire  of  Low  Degree." 

The  monarches  eye  7vith  anger  bio'us, 

Like  one  who  hates  yet  hears  a  truth  ; 
Besides  his  oivn  sivect  youth  rettirns, 

And  pleads — but  he  despises  youth. 
The  princess  kneels  before  his  chair, 

And  takes  his  heavy-hattging  hand  : 
He  does  but  stnooth  her  ruffled  hair, 

And  idle  with  its  jewelled  band  : 
And  yet  he  loves  her,  angry  though  he  be, 
And  bribes  her  to  forget  the  Squire  of  Low  Degree. 

[THE   KING   SPEAKS.] 

"  You  shall  have  a  mantle,  silver-green, 

With  clasps  of  gold,  and  gems  between, 

A  cloak  of  scarlet,  deep  as  flame. 

And  a  wimpled  hood  to  match  the  same, 

A  golden  comb  to  crown  your  hair. 

Or  even  a  crown,  like  this  I  wear. 

Or  will  you  that  every  separate  curl 

Shall  be  inlaid  with  a  priceless  pearl, 

Till  you  shine  like  night  in  the  starry  hours  ? 

Or  will  you  garland  your  brow  with  flowers  ? 

But  your  stately  throat,  like  a  swan's  afloat — 

That  must  be  circled  with  coral  beads. 

Or  the  ruby  whose  heart  with  passion  bleeds. 

Kerchiefs  of  Holland,  iMechlin  lace, 

And  a  veil  like  mist  to  hide  your  face. 

Embroidered  gloves,  and  velvet  hose. 

And  tippets  to  wrap  you  from  the  snows, 


THE   SQUIRE   OF   LOW   DEGREE.  13I 

Eider  shoes,  lined  from  the  cold, 

And  slippers  of  satin  with  buckles  of  gold. 

Nor  shall  you  tread  on  rushes  more. 

But  cloth  of  gold  shall  cover  your  floor  ; 

And  when  you  please  to  take  the  air. 

But  name  your  path,  and  we'll  spread  it  there. 

Your  garden  walks  shall  be  trimmed  anew, 

And  we'll  try  if  we  can  to  keep  the  dew  : 

Plant  new  trees,  of  stronger  shade. 

And  have  the  summer  arbors  made. 

You  shall  have  a  fawn  with  a  silver  bell, 

A  delicate  fawn,  that  knows  you  well  ; 

A  peacock,  too,  of  the  richest  hue. 

To  strut  before  you,  and  spread  its  train, 

Gay  as  the  rainbow  after  rain. 

The  fountain  shall  play,  the  swans  shall  swim, 

And  feed  from  your  hand  at  the  basin's  brim  : 

You  shall  have  a  shallop  with  silken  sail. 

And  oars  beside,  if  the  wind  should  fail : 

Shall  float  on  the  lake,  with  a  rippling  wake, 

Shoot  with  the  current  down  the  stream, 

And  under  the  arch&d  bridges  dream. 

Or  you  shall  land,  if  it  please  you  more, 

And  have  a  pavilion  pitched  on  shore, 

Blue  and  white,  like  the  sky  in  sight, 

A  couch  of  down,  and  a  dreamy  light : 

An  odorous  silence,  rapt  and  deep, 

And  sleep,  the  beautiful  balm  of  Sleep  ! " 

[THE   PRINCESS  ANSWERS.] 

"  But  I  would  sooner  have,"  said  she, 
"  My  loving  Squire  of  Low  Degree  ; 
For  in  his  faith  my  soul  reposes, 
Sweeter  than  in  a  bed  of  roses. 


132  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Nor  balmy  sleep,  nor  happy  dream, 
Nor  shallop  on  a  summer  stream, 
Nor  garden  walks,  nor  shaded  bowers, 
No,  nor  a  perfect  nest  of  flowers — 
Nothing,  my  father,  that  is  thine 
Can  make  him  any  thing  but  mine. 
You  think  us  children,  Sire,  you  men ; 
We  want  our  playthings  back  again  : 
We  must  be  pacified  with  show. 
We  are  such  simpletons,  you  know. 
It  may  be  so,  it  may  be  so. 
But  when  the  worst  is  known  and  told, 
We  cannot  all  be  bought  and  sold  ; 
Nor  force  nor  art  can  make  us  part 
From  something  holy  in  the  heart — 
The  bright  and  beautiful  love  of  old. 
The  deathless  love  I  bear  to  thee, 
My  own  dear  Squire  of  Low  Degree." 

She  leaned  against  her  father's  breast, 

And  in  her  virgin  sorrow  smiled ; 
Perplexed,  distressed,  and  ill  at  rest. 

He  stooped,  and  kissed  his  ivccping  child. 
Her  arms  around  his  neck  she  drew  j 

He  felt  her  zuild  heart  beat,  and  beat  : 
His  o%un  was  touched,  with  pity,  too  : 

He  threw  his  kingdom  at  her  feet  : 
And  yet  he  held  her  suppliant  soul  in  fee, 
For  still  he  plead  against  the  Squire  of  Low  Degree. 

[THE   KING  SPEAKS.] 

"  The  western  wing,  by  the  palace  gate, 
I  give  it  to  you,  with  all  its  state. 
Deep  are  the  halls,  broad  are  the  stairs. 
And  tables  of  oak,  and  walnut  chairs, 


THE   SQUIRE   OF   LOW   DEGREE.  1 33 

With  minors  of  \'cnice  adorn  the  rooms, 

That  are  hushed  in  the  heart  of  purple  glooms. 

When  the  sun  at  his  golden  setting  paints 

The  palace-panes,  and  we  pray  to  the  saints, 

The  Court  shall  in  your  chapel  throng, 

And  hear  the  solemn  even-song  : 

The  priest  before  the  altar  stands. 

And  lifts  the  Host  with  reverent  hands. 

The  little  faery  children  sing, 

And  the  incense  burns,  and  the  censers  swing, 

And  the  deep-toned  organ  thunders  round, 

Filling  the  aisles  with  a  sea  of  sound. 

You  shall  sup  with  me  whenever  you  will. 

And  I'll  pick  you  an  arbor,  green  and  still, 

Drape  it  with  arras  down  to  the  floor, 

And  spread  your  service  by  the  door, 

That  when  you  eat  you  may  behold 

The  knights  at  play  where  the  bowls  are  rolled. 

Then  you  shall  to  the  drawbridge  go. 

And  watch  the  sportive  fish  below, 

Their  glancing  fins,  their  motions  free, 

Arrows  of  gold  in  a  silver  sea. 

A  beautiful  barge  shall  meet  you  there, 

With  gilded  pennons  drooped  in  air, 

And  sturdy  rowers,  with  lifted  oars. 

To  pull  you  by  the  sedgy  shores. 

Step  on  deck,  and  mount  your  throne 

Under  the  purple  dais  alone  : 

Your  favored  ladies,  two  by  two. 

And  the  knights  you  name  shall  follow  you  : 

Wave  your  hand,  the  band  shall  play. 

And  the  rowers  speed  you  on  your  way ; 

Down  the  river,  and  past  the  lawn, 

And  up  the  lake  where  hides  the  swan  ; 

Through  glassy  shadows,   and  drifts  of  light, 


134  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

The  bloom  of  eve,  and  the  gloom  of  night, 

Till  rises  the  moon,  when  home  you  turn, 

And  land  where  the  torches  redly  burn, 

And  the  garden's  roof  and  its  leafy  bars 

Glitter  with  cressets,  like  colored  stars  : 

Then  to  your  chamber,  chaste  and  white. 

In  the  silent  privacy  of  night. 

Your  room  shall  be  hung  with  curtains  of  snow. 

And  a  canopy  over  the  couch  shall  flow  : 

The  broidered  sheets  with  pearls  we'll  strew. 

Till  it  gleams  like  a  lily  edged  with  dew. 

You  shall  have  the  finch  that  you  desire, 

In  an  ivory  cage  with  golden  wire  ; 

It  shall  hang  at  the  head  of  your  bed,  and  cheep. 

And  meet  your  eyes  when  they  close  in  sleep  : 

And  to  hasten  sleep  we'll  make  the  room 

Drowsy  with  shadow  and  perfume. 

And  you  shall  have  the  ripe  delight 

Of  mellowest  music  all  the  night, 

And  when  the  songs  of  the  minstrels  fail 

The  sweeter  songs  of  the  nightingale  : 

And  the  heavenly  strain  will  flood  your  brain, 

Till  heaven  opens  before  your  eyes, 

And  your  spirit  walks  in  Paradise  !  " 

[THE   PRINCESS   ANSWERS.] 

"  But  I  would  only  have,"  said  she, 
"My  loving  Squire  of  Low  Degree; 
For  I  love  him,  and  he  loves  me. 
And  what  is  life  when  love  is  flown  ? 
We  breathe,  indeed,  we  grieve,  we  sigh. 
And  seem  to  live,  and  yet  we  die  : 

There  is  no  life  alone. 
Glory  is  but  a  gilded  chain. 


IMOGEN.  135 


And  joy  another  name  for  pain  : 

There  is  no  joy  alone  ! 
But  joy,  or  pain,  it  matters  not, 
Without  my  Squire  of  Low  Degree  ; 
All  things  are  nothing  now  to  me. 
For  I  shall  die,  and  be  forgot. 
You  have  another  daughter  still 
To  love  you,  Sire,  and  work  your  will; 
For  me  awaits  the  convent  cell, 
And  soon  the  mournful  passing-bell. 
No  more  a  princess,  when  you  hear 
The  woman's  dirge,  and  see  her  bier, 
Forget  your  pride,  and  all  beside, 
And  but  remember  she  was  dear. 
And  when  the  ghostly  mass  is  said, 
And  prayers  are  chanted  for  the  dead, 
O  pray  that  she  may  happy  be, 
And  all  good  souls  shall  pray  for  thee  !  " 


IMOGEN. 

Unknown  to  her  the  maids  supplied 
Her  wants,  and  gliding  noiseless  round 
Passed  out  again,  while  Leon's  hound 
Stole  in  and  slumbered  at  her  side  : 
Then  Cloten  came,  a  silly  ape. 

And  wooed  her  in  his  boorish  way. 
Barring  the  door  against  escape  ; 

But  the  hound  woke,  and  stood  at  bay, 
Defiant  at  the  lady's  feet, 
And  made  the  ruffian  retreat. 

Then  for  a  little  moment's  space 
A  smile  did  flit  across  the  face 
Of  Lady  Imogen. 


136  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Without  the  morning  dried  the  dews 
From  shaven  lawns  and  pastures  green  : 
Meantime  the  court  dames  and  the  queen 
Did  pace  the  shaded  avenues  : 
And  Cymbehne  amid  his  train 

Rode  down  the  winding  palace  walks, 
Behind  the  hounds  that  snuffed  the  plain, 

And  in  the  track  of  wheeling  hawks  ; 
And  soon  in  greenwood  shaws  anear 
They  blew  their  horns,  and  chased  the  deer. 
But  she  nor  saw  nor  heard  it  there, 
But  sat,  a  statue  of  despair, 
The  mourtiful  Imogen. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  round  her  head, 

And  clasped  her  hands,  and  thought,  and  thought, 
As  every  faithful  lady  ought. 
Whose  lord  is  far  away — or  dead. 
She  pressed  in  books  his  faded  flowers. 
That  never  seemed  so  sweet  before  ; 
Upon  his  picture  gazed  for  hours. 

And  read  his  letters  o'er  and  o'er, 
Dreaming  about  the  loving  Past, 
Until  her  tears  were  flowing  fast. 

With  aches  of  Jieart,  and  aches  of  brain. 
Bewildered  in  the  realms  of  pain, 
The  wretched  Imogen  / 


She  tried  to  rouse  herself  again, 
Began  a  broidery  quaint  and  rich. 
But  pricked  her  fingers  every  stitch, 

And  left  in  every  bud  a  stain. 

She  took  her  distaff,  tried  to  spin. 
But  tangled  up  the  golden  thread  : 


IMOGEN.  137 

She  touched  her  lute,  but  could  not  win 

A  happy  sound,  her  skill  had  fled. 
The  letters  in  her  books  were  blurred, 
She  could  not  understand  a  word. 

Bewildered  still,  and  still  in  tears. 
The  dtipe  of  hopes,  the  prey  of  fears. 
The  weeping  Imogen  I 

Her  curtains  opened  in  the  breeze 
And  showed  the  slowly-setting  sun, 
Through  vines  that  up  the  sash  did  run, 
And  hovering  butterflies  and  bees. 
A  silver  fountain  gushed  below, 

Where  swans  superbly  swam  the  spray  : 
And  pages  hurried  to  and  fro, 

And  trim  gallants  with  ladies  gay. 
And  many  a  hooded  monk  and  friar 
Went  barefoot  by  in  coarse  attire. 
But  like  a  picture,  or  a  dream, 
The  outward  world  did  only  seem, 
To  thoughtful  Imogen. 

When  curfews  rang,  and  day  was  dim. 
She  glided  to  her  chapel  desk. 
Unclasped  her  missal  arabesque. 
And  sang  the  solemn  vesper  hymn  : 
Before  the  crucifix  knelt  down. 

And  told  her  beads,  and  strove  to  pray ; 
But  Heaven  was  deaf,  and  seemed  to  frown. 

And  push  her  idle  words  away  : 
And  when  she  touched  the  holy  urn 
The  icy  water  seemed  to  burn  ! 

No  faith  had  she  in  saints  above. 
She  only  wanted  human  love. 
The  pining  Imogen. 


138  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

The  pale  moon  walked  the  waste  o'erhead, 
And  filled  the  room  with  sickly  light ; 
Then  she  arose  in  piteous  plight, 
Disrobed  herself,  and  crept  to  bed. 
The  wind  without  was  loud  and  deep, 

The  rattling  casements  made  her  start : 
At  last  she  slept,  but  in  her  sleep 

She  pressed  her  fingers  o'er  her  heart, 
And  moaned,  and  once  she  gave  a  scream, 
To  break  the  clutches  of  a  dream. 

Even  in  her  sleep  she  could  not  sleep. 
For  ugly  visions  made  her  weep. 
The  troubled  Imogen. 


THE   FLAMINGO. 

[in   THE   DESERT.] 

Thin  and  pale  the  moon  is  shining 

Where  the  Arab  tents  are  spread  ; 
But  the  cloudy  sky  before  me. 
And  around  the  burning  desert. 

Both  are  red  : 
And  where  their  hues  are  most  like  blood, 
Mirrored  in  the  sluggish  flood, 
Down  the  long,  black  neck  of  land, 
I  see  the  red  Flamingo  stand. 

That  bird  accurst,  I  saw  it  first 

On  a  wild  and  angry  dawn ; 
I  was  wakened  from  my  slumbers 
By  Zuleika's  stifled  screaming — 
She  was  gone ! 


THE   SERENADE   OF   MA-HAN-SHAN.  1 39 

Stolen  by  a  turbaned  horseman, 

Mounted  on  a  barb  so  black  : 
I  saw  her  garments  waving  white. 
And  I  followed  day  and  night, 

In  the  red  Flamingo's  track. 
Three  whole  moons  have  I  pursued  it, 

With  a  swift  and  noiseless  tread  ; 
Like  a  dreamer  whom  the  demons 
With  a  baleful  lamp  are  leading 

To  the  dead. 
Happy  are  the  dead !     But  I — 
I  can  never,  never  die, 

Until  my  hands  are  red. 
But  red  they  will  be  soon. 
For  1  turn  my  back  upon  the  moon. 
And  follow  the  bird  that  doubles  its  speed, 
Eager  to  see  the  horseman  bleed, 
And  dabble  its  beak,  as  I  my  hands. 
In  the  blood  that  shall  crimson  the  desert  sands  ! 


THE   SERENADE   OF   MA-HAN-SHAN, 

[CHINA.] 

Come  to  the  window  now,  beautiful  Yu  Ying  ! 
The  new  moon  is  rising,  white  as  the  shell  of  a  pearl. 
Your  honored  father  and  brother 

And  the  guests  are  still  at  table, 
Tipping  the  golden  bottles. 
But  I  have  stolen  to  you ! 
The  rose  looks  over  the  wall 
To  see  who  passes  near : 


I40  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Look  out  of  the  window,  you, 
And  see  who  waits  below. 
I  am  a  Mandarin  :    my  plume  is  a  pheasant's  feather  : 
The  lady  who  marries  me  may  live  at  court,  if  she  likes. 

I  stood  by  the  pond  to-day  ;    hundreds  of  lilies  bloomed. 
And  the  wonderful  keung-flower  grew  in  the  midst  of  all. 
Whenever  that  marvel  happens 
A  wedding  is  sure  to  follow  ; 
It  rests  with  you,  Yu  Ying, 

Speak — is  the  wedding  ours  ? 
We  will  dwell  in  Keang-Nan, 
For  I  have  a  palace  there  ; 
My  garden  is  leagues  in  length, 
Deer  run  wild  in  the  parks : 
Cages  of  loories,  macaws  ;  lakes  of  Mandarin  ducks : 
A  lane  bordered  with  peach-trees — all  for  sweet  Yu  Ying. 

What  means  this  wonderful  light  ?     Is  it  a  second  moon  ? 
Yu  Ying  at  her  window  !     A  million  of  thanks,  Yu  Ying  ! 
Drop  me  your  fan  for  a  gift, 

Or  better  a  tress  of  your  hair  : 
It  is  but  little  to  give, 

For  I  have  given  my  heart ! 
The  fire-flies  twinkle,  twinkle. 
Under  the  cypress  boughs  : 
They  are  wedding  each  other  to-night. 
The  lights  are  their  wedding  lanterns. 
When  shall  I  order  ours,  and  come  in  the  flowery  chair  ? 
Name  me  the  pearl  of  a  day,  my  bride,  my  wife — Yu  Ying  ! 


THE   SLEDGE   AT   THE   GATE.  141 

THE  SLEDGE  AT  THE  GATE. 

[LAPLAND.] 

I  WOULD  run  this  arrow  straight  into  my  heart 

Sooner  than  see  what  I  saw  to- night. 
I  harnessed  my  rein-deer,  mounted  the  sledge, 

And  skimmed  the  snow  by  the  northern  Hght. 
The  thin  ice  crackled,  the  water  roared, 

But  I  crossed  the  fiord  : 
I  reach  the  house  when  the  night  is  late, 
What's  this  ?     A  deer  and  a  sledge  at  the  gate  ! 

0  the  eyes  of  Zela  are  winter  springs  ! 

But  the  wealth  of  summer  is  in  her  hair  ; 
But  she  loves  me  not,  she  is  false  again. 

Or  why  are  the  sledge  and  the  rein- deer  there  ? 

1  throw  myself  down,  face-first  in  the  snow  : 

"  Let  the  false  one  go .'  " 
She  never  shall  know  my  love,  or  my  scorn. 
For  I  shall  be  frozen  stiff  in  the  morn. 

The  sharp  winds  blew,  and  my  limbs  grew  chill. 

I  knew  no  more  till  I  felt  the  fire. 
They  rubbed  my  breast,  and  they  rubbed  my  hands, 

And  my  life  came  back  like  a  dark  desire. 
She  spake  kind  words,  and  smoothed  my  hair. 

But  the  sledge  was  there  ! 
''  Ah  false,  hit  fair!"     It  was  all  I  said, 
I  struck  her  down,  and  away  I  fled. 

I  mounted  my  sledge,  and  the  rein-deer  flew. 
In  the  wind,  in  the  snow,  in  the  blinding  sleet  : 


142  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

The  snow  was  heavy,  the  wind  like  a  knife, 

And  the  ice  like  water  under  my  feet. 
The  wolves  were  hungry — they  scented  my  track- 
But  I  fought  them  back ! 
I  fear  neither  wolves,  nor  the  winter's  cold, 
For  the  faithless  woman  has  made  me  bold. 


THE  GRAPE  GATHERER. 

[ITALY.] 

Well,  I  have  met  you,  cousin. 

Where  not  a  soul  can  see  : 
What  do  you  want?    "You  love  me?" 

You  trifle.  Sir,  with  me. 
You  love  that  grape-girl  yonder, 

The  one  against  the  wall : 
She  climbs,  and  climbs  ;  but  have  a  care, 

A  step,  and  she  may  fall. 
You  walked  with  her  this  morning. 

Her  basket  on  your  head  : 
"  'Twas  better  than  my  coronet," 

Or  something  so  you  said  : 
"  And  the  grapes  and  yellow  tendrils 

Tangled  in  her  hair. 
Were  brighter  than  my  ringlets, 

And  all  the  pearls  I  wear." 
You  should  have  seen  her  lover, 

Hid  in  the  vines  hard  by, 
A  swarthy,  black-browed  fellow, 

With  a  devil  in  his  eye: 
He  clutched  his  grape-hook  fiercely, 

And  but  that  I  were  near, 


SICILIAN   PASTORAL.  I43 

He  would  have  slain  you,  cousin, 

And  will  some  night,  I  fear. 
You  think  she  loves  you  only  ? 

And  so  thought  all  the  rest  : 
Why,  you  had  hardly  left  her 

Before  the  Count  was  blest. 
You  doubt  ?     Pray  ask  her  sister, 

Or  ask  the  jilted  swains, 
Or  watch,  when  she's  not  watching, 

'Twill  well  be  worth  your  pains. 
I  should  be  very  angry, 

'Tis  so  unworthy  you  : 
But  since  you  say  you  jested, 

I  must  forgive,  and  do. 
I  own  I  love  you  somewhat ; 

But  ere  you  marry  me. 
You  must  do  one  thing,  cousin — 

Let  my  grape  gatherers  be ! 


SICILIAN  PASTORAL. 

The  nests  in  spring  were  full  of  bluish  eggs. 
In  summer  full  of  birds  :  now  autumn  comes 
The  nests  are  empty,  and  the  birds  are  gone. 

The  soft  white  clouds  are  flecked,  the  sky  is  bound 
With  belts  of  swallows,  stretching  from  the  west 
To  where  the  east  is  girded  in  with  haze. 

Stay,  swallows,  stay  !     The  land  is  near  and  bright. 
The  sea  is  far,  and  dark,  and  perilous. 
And  all  beyond  is  alien,  and  unknown. 


144  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Why  should  ye  fly  so  soon  ?     Why  fly  at  all, 
W^hen  ye  might  stay  with  us  the  long  year  through, 
And  be  in  deathless  summer  all  the  time  ? 

Here  all  the  vales  are  full  of  dewy  flowers, 
The  orchard  plots  are  full  of  juicy  fruits. 
The  endless,  purple  woods  are  full  of  balm. 

Stay,  swallows,  stay  !    The  flowers  and  fruit  and  balm 
Will  fade  and  die,  when  ye  have  left  the  isle. 
And  winds  will  moan  the  absence  of  your  songs. 

Stay,  swallows,  stay  !  and  hear  the  last  year's  birds  : 
"  We  flew  o'er  many  an  isle  where  summer  broods, 
But  found  no  summer-land  like  Sicily." 

They  will  not  hear — we  waste  our  words  in  air  : 

We  might  as  well  go  chatter  to  the  crows  : 

The  crows  would  hear  us,  thougli  they  meant  to  go. 

Go,  swallows,  go  !  and  be  it  all  your  doom 
To  bear  the  memory  of  what  ye  leave — 
For  memory  will  cancel  half  the  sin  : 

And  be  it  all  your  punishment  to  sing 

In  tropic  islands  of  Sicilian  sweets. 

And  shame  the  tropic  birds  with  summer  songs. 


[PERSIA.] 

We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 
I  stopped  my  camel  at  the  city  gate ; 
Why  did  I  stop  ?     I  left  my  heart  behind. 


THE   SEARCH   FOR   PERSEPHONE.  145 

I  heard  the  sighing  of  thy  garden  pahns, 

I  saw  the  roses  burning  up  with  love, 

I  saw  thee  not:  thou  wert  no  longer  there. 

We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 

A  moon  has  passed  since  that  unhappy  day  ; 

It  seems  an  age  :  the  days  are  long  as  years. 

I  send  thee  gifts  by  every  caravan, 

I   send  thee  flasks  of  attar,   spices,  pearls, 

I  write  thee  loving  songs  on  golden  scrolls. 

I  meet  the  caravans  when  they  return. 

"What  news?"   I  ask.     The  drivers  shake  their  heads. 

We  parted  in  the  streets  of  Ispahan. 


THE   SEARCH    FOR    PERSEPHONE. 

BOOK    II. 

"  Proserpine  gathering  flowers. 
Herself  a  fairer  flower,  by  gloomy  Dis 
Was  gathered,  luhich  cost  Ceres  all  that  pain 
'To  seek  her  throng Ji  the  worlds 

No  more  of  rural  song  and  pastoral, 
Profuse  or  studied,  but  a  higher  strain  ; 
Thee  now  I  woo,  divine  Melpomene. 
Thou  didst  inspire  tragedians  grave  of  eld. 
To  sing  of  Godlike  suffering,  and  embalm 
In  monumental  verse  the  woe  of  Gods  ; 
Much  did  they  sing,  but  much  remains  unsung, 
And  cliicf  Demeter's  woe,   wliicli   now  is  mine. 
7 


146  SONGS    OF   SUMMER. 

O  help  me,  3S  thou  didst  thhie  elder  bards, 

Order  the  lofty  numbers,  build  the  style 

In  naked  and  severe  simplicity. 

And  lift  my  spirit  to  the  argument. 

Which  deepens  soon  to  tragic.     Breathe  through  me, 

Voiceless  myself,  and  thine  be  all  the  wreaths. 

Where  is  Demeter  now?  What  troubled  look 
Burthens  her  face — what  solemn  words  the  air  ? 
Demeter  stands  beside  the  spring  which  rose 
Where  Aides  vanished  with  Persephone: 
Of  port  superior  to  the  loftiest 
Of  mortal  mould,  in  Queen,  or  Amazon 
Renowned,  the  light  and  pillar  of  the  sex  ; 
Deep-bosomed,  and  white-limbed,  a  supreme  Shape. 
Her  face  is  pale  with  sorrow,  yet  she  wears 
Her  sorrow  grandly  like  a  diadem, 
Nor  other  crown,  though  Goddess  of  the  Earth, 
Except  the  simple  tiar  of  golden  hair 
Coiled  round  her  brow,  an  orb^d  peak  of  thought. 
Her  voice  is  sadder  than  an  autumn  wind 
In  a  lone  land,  not  shrill,  nor  full  of  gusts. 
But  equal,   and  deep-toned,  blown  from  all  points. 

"  1  have  been  listening,  wrapt  in  searching  thought, 
To  what,  in  trembling  words,  the  nymphs  revealed, 
But  where  my  child  has  gone  I  cannot  tell  ; 
My  foresight  failed  me  here,  my  knowledge  fails. 
Wisdom  will  come,  till  when  its  place  usurped 
Is  filled  by  grief.     Perchance  some  River  (}od 
Hath  stolen  my  child,  whom  he  will  soon  return. 
Unharmed,  for  fear  of  me,  so  potent  I. 
This  fountain  must  be  questioned.     Answer  me. 
Soul  of  this  coil  of  foamy  turbulence, 
Whether  thou  art  beneath  the  wide,  waste  sea. 


THE    SEARCH    FOR    PERSEPHONE.  147 

With  great  Poseidon,  and  his  finny  train, 

Or  in  the  deeps  of  Earth,  in  caves  obscure, 

Up-hastening  to  the  Hght,  at  this  my  call — 

Speak,  answer  me,  where  is  Persephone  ? 

Thou  hast  beheld,  and  stolen  her  away, 

Thou,  or  some  other  spirit  mischievous, 

Whose  portal  of  retreat  was  opened  here. 

Where  is  my  daughter  ?     If  I  speak  again, 

The  Earth  will  draw  thy  fountain  to  its  source, 

And  cast  thee  from  her  bosom.     Answer  me  ! 

In  vain,  in  vain  !     The  fountain  hath  no  God, 

And  cannot  answer  ;   Godless  let  it  be, 

Stormy  and  bitter  to  the  end  of  time. 

But  you,  ye  lesser  spirits  of  the  vale. 

Cannot  escape — I  here  compel  ye  all. 

From  rivers,  brooks,  and  springs,  you  Naiads  come, 

With  Napeads  from  the  vale  ;   and  from  the  grove 

The  Meliads,  who  here  for  lack  of  flocks 

Must  tend  the  fruit;   and  you,  ye  Oreads, 

Both  from  the  valley  and  the  mountain  mists  ; 

Hither,  and  tell  me  of  Persephone." 

The  Goddess  thus,  and  even  as  she  spake 
From  rivers,  brooks,  and  springs  the  Naiads  came. 
With  water  lilies  tangled  in  their  hair  ; 
The  Napeads  from  the  vale  in  skirts  of  grass, 
The   Meliads  with  their  white  hands  full  of  fruit. 
And  all  the  Oreads  from  the  shifting  mists, 
Wringing  their  dewy  tresses  on  the  lawn  ; 
Obedient  to  the  power  that  summoned  them, 
They  thus  made  answer  in  their  several  turns. 

"  We  are  the  Naiads  of  the  neighboring  streams. 
Below  their  wrinkled  waves  we  live  in  grots. 
Paven  with  furrowed  sands,  the  shclvv  rocks 


148  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Our  thrones,  our  couches  beds  of  humid  moss. 
We  strain  the  water  through  our  golden  hair, 
With  flowers  we  sow  the  bottom,  and  with  weeds 
Whose  blooms  are  full  of  wind.     We  love  the  fish 
Whose  little  coats  are  sleek  with  glittering  scales  : 
The  plated  turtles,  and  defiant  crabs, 
That  lie,  or  crawl  beneath  the  grayish  stones, 
The  long-legged  beetles  skimming  o'er  the  waves, 
With  other  watery  insects,  are  our  care: 
We  know  and  love  the  least  :  but  as  we  liope 
To  keep  our  silver  urns  forever  full 
We  all  are  ignorant  of  Persephone." 

"  But  I,"  said  one,  the  Naiad  of  a  lake, 
"I  saw  the  nymph,  and  she  was  lovelier 
Than  all  my  lilies,  whiter  than  my  swans ; 
But  where  she  hides  I  know  not,  or  may  fires 
Shed  from  the  Dog-Star  dry  my  fountains  up, 
And  leave  me  shelterless  on  burning  sands." 

"  And  we,"  the  drooping  Napeads  began, 
'•Surrounded  by  her  train  we  saw  the  nymph 
Trip  down  the  vale.     We  woke  the  early  flowers, 
And  turned  the  dew  from  their  enamelled  cups  ; 
Not  one  but  wanted  to  resign  its  life 
Beneath  her  feet— to  die  such  death  were  sweet : 
She  walked  as  lightly  as  the  winds  of  Spring." 

"  The  winds  of  Spring,"  the  Mcliads  broke  and    joined 
The  broken  thread  of  speech,   "  the  winds  of  Spring 
Blow  in  old  Winter's  teeth,  and  rouse  the  buds  ; 
The  winds  of  Summer  overtake  the  Spring, 
And  swell  the  buds  to  fruit  :   both  are  our  care. 
We  screen  the  buds  with  leaves,  remove  the  worms, 
And  drive  away  the  bees  and  angry  wasps  ; 


THE   SEARCH   FOR   PERSEPHONE.  I49 

We  feed  the  fruit  with  sun,   and  wind,  and  dew  ; 
The  rinds  of  some  we  gild,  and  some  we  kiss, 
And  leave  our  breath  thereon  in  bluish  mist. 
We  saw  at  dawn  the  nymph   Persephone 
Lost  in  our  orchards;  tigs,  and  plums,  and  pears 
Lay  round  in  heaps  ;  we  rained  the  olives  down, 
The  red  pomegranates  split,  and  pierced  the  myrrh 
And  manna-tree  whose  veins  are  full  of  balm. 
With  many  a  sweet  delay  the  virgin  passed, 
But  where  she  hides  we  know  not,  or  may  blight 
Shrivel  our  leaves,  the  north  winds  nip  our  buds, 
And  worms  destroy  our  fruit — henceforth  to  be 
More  rich  and  luscious  than  in  other  years." 

"  We  dwell  in  mists,"  began  the  Oreads  next, 
''In  vale  and  mountain  mists  ;   a  streak  of  gold 
Betrays  our  presence  there  ;  in  hollow  glens 
We  couch  when  dews  are  dried  :   among  the  hills. 
From  peak  to  peak,  we  float  across  the  gulfs, 
And  leap  in  cataracts  down  the  untouched  crags. 
May  all  our  dews  and  exhalations  fail 
But  we  are  ignorant  of  Persephone." 

'•  Infirm,  and  idle,  wherefore  do  ye  live. 
If  not  to  see,  and  succor  Excellence, 
When  Excellence  may  need  your  timely  aid  ? 
Is  it  for  this  that  Earth's  maternal  care 
Protects  and  clasps  ye  to  her  loving  heart  ? 
For  this  Heaven  holds  ye  in  its  sacred  charge  ? 
But  thou,   O  Earth,  great  Mother  of  Mankind  ! 
If  these,  thine  own  appointed  ministrants, 
Neglect  their  calling,  thou  shouldst  rise  thyself. 
And  save  the  heavenly  ones  whose  lives  are  thine, 
And  unto  thine  add  joy  and  length  of  days. 
Back  to  your  homes,  and  little  tasks  again, 


I50  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Ye  spirits  of  this  dark,  accursed  vale, 

And  leave  me  in  my  loneliness  alone  ! 

To  be  a  Goddess  now  avails  me  not, 

Nor  yet  to  have  a  Goddess  for  my  child. 

With  sleepless  eyes  the  island  must  be  searched. 

Obscure  and  wild  the  dark  retreat  must  be 

For  me  to  fear;  a  mother's  eyes  are  keen, 

A  mother's  heart  is  strong  to  save  her  child. 

Farewell  ye  groves  of  Enna,  where  we  dwelt ! 

Farewell,  ye  meadows  !     When   I  come  again, 

1  bring  Persephone,  or  come  no  more." 

Thus  spake  Demeter  as  she  crossed  the  vale 
To  search  its  northern  bounds,  which  lovelier  grew 
At  every  step,  the  home  and  haunt  of  Spring. 
Through  groves  and  orchards  full  of  piping  birds, 
That  dropped  from  bough  to  bough  like  falling  buds, 
Through  emerald  meadows  sown  with  silver  dew. 
And  golden  pastures  resonant  with  bees. 
The  Goddess  passed,  with  keen  and  anxious  eyes 
Perusing  all ;  nor  did  she  cease  to  call 
^''  Persephone  !  ^^  But  trace  of  her  was  none. 
Save  in  her  shoutings,  which  the  vale  retained, 
As  hollow  shores  the  voice  of  ebbing  seas. 
Then  through  a  gorge  along  the  east  she  went, 
The  mountains  on  her  right  fledged  with  dark  pines. 
And  on  her  left  the  long  Nebrodian  range. 
The  craggy  barriers  of  the  northern  sky  ; 
The  wind  blew  downward  from  their  summit  snows 
Freighted  with  winter,  and  the  melting  mist. 
Heavy  and  damp,  rolled  up  and  down  the  gorge  ; 
And  up  and  down  the  gorge  the  Goddess  went, 
Scanning  the  figures  shrouded  in  the  mist. 
And  one  by  one  the  Hours  with  solemn  pace 
Did  come  and  go,  and  Morning  was  no  more. 


THE   SEARCH    FOR   PERSEPHONE.  15' 

There  was  a  wild  and  desolate  ravine 
That  wound  along  the  bottom  of  the  pass  ; 
Its  misty  sides  were  dark  with  shaggy  woods, 
And  from  its  verge,  headlong,  a  river  plunged 
Through  clouds  of  spray,  deep  down  a  troubled  lake, 
Dammed  up  with  rocks,  down  which  it  plunged  again, 
In  ragged  cataracts,  sullen  and  hoarse. 
A  narrow  pathway  coiled  on  rocky  shelves 
With  steep  descents  traversed  the  precipice  : 
Down  this  with  wary  feet  Demeter  trod, 
And  searched  the  old  and  melancholy  woods  , 
Burthened  with  endless  shade  and  solitude. 
And  searched  the  clouded  lake  and  waterfall, 
And  all  the  cavernous  bases  of  the  hills. 
Deep-sunk  in  earth  ;   no  nook,   nor  secret  cleft, 
In  which  a  spotted  adder  and  her  brood 
Could  coil  away,  escaped  her  sharpened  eye, 
That  found  no  traces  of  Persephone. 
So  up  the  pass  with  slow  and  toilsome  steps 
She  clomb  again,  and  reached  at  last  a  plain 
That  stretched  along  the  west,  and  slept  in  light. 
Till  now  nor  sight  nor  sound  of  man  appeared, 
But  now  at  intervals  shepherds  were  seen. 
And  notes  of  shepherd's  flutes  were  heard  afar. 
Here  dwelt  a  pastoral  race  that  worshipped  Pan, 
Nor  far  the  Goddess  journeyed  ere  she  found 
A  group  around  his  altar, — reverent  swains 
With  sacrificial  goats,  and  pious  maids 
With  urns  of  honey  wreathed  in  sprigs  of  pine  ; 
And  in  their  midst  the  venerable  Priest. 
Deep  awe  pervaded  all  as  thus  she  spake. 

"  Shepherds,  since  dawn  the  nymph  Persephone 
By  hostile  force  from  Enna  has  been  ta'en  ; 
If  any  man  has  seen  her,  let  him  speak. 


152  SONGS   OF   SUMMER, 

Let  him  not  fear,  but  speak,  and  name  her  path. 

We  both  are  kind  to  you,  nor  love  you  less 

Than  if  you  worshipped  us  instead  of  Pan  ; 

Witness  the  bees  I  charmed  from  Hybla  here, 

When  last  the  sun  flamed  in  the  vernal  signs, 

With  all  that  shall  hereafter  come  of  good 

To  him,  whose  happy  knowledge  touching  her — 

If  any  such  there  be — lightens  my  heart; 

Good,  if  he  speak,  evil,  if  he  speak  not, 

To  him,  and  all  his  kindred  after  him  ; 

But  such  there  cannot  be.     Speak,  shepherds,  speak.!  " 

The  Goddess  thus,  and  paused,  but  none  replied, 
So  deep  the  dread  that  fell  upon  all  hearts. 
At  length  the  Priest  ventured  with  faltering  tongue. 
"O  great  Demeter!    Goddess  of  the  Earth  ! 
Impute  not  sin  to  silence,  neither  charge 
Thy  loss  to  us,   participants  therein — 
For  who  but  suffers  when  the  good  are  wronged  ? 
Forgive  our  ignorance  of  Persephone, 
And  elsewhere  let  thy  just  displeasure  fall." 

To  whom  Demeter,  mild  and  sad,  returned  ; 
"  Old  man,  'twould  ill  become  the  race  divine, 
Divine  no  less  through  justice  than  through  power, 
Instead  of  Wrong,  to  punish  Ignorance. 
For  if  the  Gods  unjust  and  cruel  prove, 
How  shall  their  worshippers  be  good  and  kind? 
But  fear  not  that ;    lifted  above  the  world, 
No  mortal  frailties  their  perfections  mar. 
Though  sad  at  heart,  right  glad  am  I  withal 
To  see  ye  love  and  reverence  the  Gods  ; 
No  grateful  heart  enjoys  the  least  of  gifts 
Without  returning  to  the  giver  thanks, 
And  offering  in  return  the  best  it  can. 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  PERSEPHONE.      I  53 

Not  that  the  Gods  are  ever  paid  thereby, 

For  what  to  them  are  honey,  goats,  or  bulls  ? 

They  need  them  not,  nor  need  they  hymns  of  praise, 

For  they  are  all  sufficient  in  themselves. 

Yet  dear  to  them  the  clouds  of  sacrifice, 

That  waft  above  the  prayers  of  thankful  hearts  ; 

It  is  their  due,  the  makers  of  mankind." 

Thus  through  her  grief  accents  of  wisdom  fell. 
Assured  thereby  they  bowed,   and  worshipped  her  : 
But  mindful  of  her  search,  too  long  delayed, 
She  journeyed  o'er  the  plain  with  added  speed, 
Till  many-wooded  Etna  came  in  sight. 
And  the  hot  sun  rounded  the  arch  of  Noon, 
Descending  to  its  western  base  of  sea. 

Ten  leagues  from  Enna  blue  Simetos  rolled 
Through  osier  banks  his  current  to  the  main. 
Bathing  her  burning  forehead  in  the  waves, 
She  saw  the  image  of  the  River  God, 
Obliquely  mirrored  in  a  bed  of  reeds  ; 
Him  she  addressed,  and  at  her  call  he  rose, 
With  dripping  locks  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  sedge. 
*'  Son  of  Oceanos,  whom  ocean  owns 
No  longer  for  its  God,  but  still  doth  hide 
In  some  deep  cavern,  while  Poseidon  rules 
His  sovereignty  of  sea — beloved  of  both, 
Divine  Simetos,  if  thou  hast  beheld 
Since  early  dawn  the  nymph  Persephone, 
Stolen  from  Enna  by  some  Power  unknown, 
Haply  from  spring,  or  stream,  or  far-off  main. 
Unfold  what  thou  dost  know  :    or  knowing  naught, 
Since  I  would  cross  thy  current  in  my  search, 
Draw  back  thy  waters  to  their  mountain  source, 
And   let  me  pass  ;    so  may  the  mountain  snows 


154  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Fail  not  to  brim  thy  fountain,  and  thy  mates, 
Camsorus,   Chrysos,   and  bright  Eryces, 
Empty  their  urns  of  tribute  at  thy  feet." 

"  O  great  Demeter  !    Mother  of  the  Earth! 
Sower  of  seed,  and  source  of  fruitfuhiess, 
With  grief  I  hear  thy  melancholy  voice 
Laden  with  loss,  which  I  cannot  repair, 
For  naught  hath  passed  since  dawn.     I  will  draw  back 
My  current  to  its  source,  and  let  thee  cross." 

Thus  he,  and  northward  buffeted  the  waves. 
Till  lost  around  the  river's  westward  curve  ; 
Reaching  its  source  he  sealed  its  secret  urn, 
And  stayed  the  current,  which  rolled  on  below, 
And  left  a  gulf,  through  which  the  Goddess  passed, 
With  unwet  sandals  over  waves  of  grass, 
Through  rounded  walls  of  crystal,  rolling  down 
Tumultuous  in  her  rear  in  crumbled  foam, 
That  shut  the  pass,  and  followed  in  her  path, 
Until  she  gained  the  river's  eastern  bank, 
And  shouted  to  Simetos,  who  unsealed 
The  dripping  urn,  when  all  the  waters  closed, 
And  sought  the  sea  again  as  she  her  child. 
Her  path  now  wound  about  the  southern  base 
Of  Etna,  sloping  to  the  river's  edge. 
Here  Polyphemos  fed  his  numerous  flock. 
That  lay  like  drifts  of  snow  in  dreamy  vales. 
Until  Demeter's  shadow,  dark  and  tall. 
Searching  the  uplands  chased  them  o'er  the  hills  ; 
All  fled  in  fear  save  one  whose  lamb  was  lost, 
A  fearless  ewe  that  to  the  Goddess  came, 
And  made  its  sorrow  known  with  piteous  tears. 
She  would  have  left  it  in  the  fields,  but  lo, 
It  followed  her,  and  bleated  for  its  Iamb. 


THE  SEARCH  FOR  rERSEPHONE.      I  55 

So  towards  the  sea  they  went,  and  reached  at  hist 

Its  rippled  margent  where  the  Cyclops  lay, 

Under  a  ledge  of  rocks  that  made  a  cave  ; 

Beside  his  feet  a  nameless  river  ran, 

Now  named  and  known  from  Acis,  buried  there. 

Here  Polyphemos  languished  in  the  sun, 

Like  some  rude  idol  dusk  barbarians 

Adore  no  longer,  tumbled  from  its  base. 

Thrice  did  the  Goddess  shout  a  mighty  shout 

Above  his  couch  before  he  stirred  a  limb, 

Then  slow,  and  sullen,  he  arose  and  frowned. 

But  she  stood  calm  as  Thought,  nor  feared  his  strength. 

"  O  Polyphemos,  great  Poseidon's  son  ! 
Noblest  of  all  the  Cyclopean  race  ! 
Shepherd  of  Etna,  and  its  thousand  flocks, 
From  thee  Demeter  claims  a  patient  ear, 
Attentive  to  her  sorrow  and  despair. 
That  seek  the  footprints  of  Persephone, 
Stolen  from  Enna  by  some  wanton   Power, 
Not  thee  she  fain  would  hope,  since  thou  art  great, 
And  should'st  be  kind,  for  kindness  is  the  star 
That  crowns  all  greatness,  therefore  crowneth  thee. 
If  thou  hast  harmed  not  her  defenceless  child, 
Sunk,  as  thou  seem'st,  in  sorrow  and  despair, 
From   ills  unknown  to  her,  for  which  nathless 
She  grieves,  and  pities  thee,  as  thou  dost  her. 
Meaning  to  tell  her  of  Persephone  ; 
Till  when  she  waits,  a-hungered  for  thy  voice." 

Thus  with  wise  words,  like  oil  upon  the  sea 
Swollen  with  storm,  she  laid  his  rising  ire, 
And  smoothed  his  rugged  features  to  a  calm. 

"Not  I,"  he  said,   "not   I  have  done  this  thing, 
Whoever  may  ;   not  I  go  stealing  maids  ; 


156  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

I  live  and  die  for  Galatea  alone. 

Why,   I  have  lain  all  night  in  falling  dew, 

And  sang  of  Galatea  to  every  star ; 

And  I  have  shouted  from  the  cloven  peaks 

Until  the  Thunder  answered  from  his  cave, 

While  startled  Lightnings  glared  from  parting  clouds. 

O  Galatea,  divinest  Galatea! 
Well  I  remember  when  I  saw  thee  first ! 
'Twas  when  at  noon  I  lay  along  the  bank 
Of  blue  Simetos,  where  my  thirsty  flock 
Crowded  and  pushed  until  the  lamb  fell  in, 
To  drown,  but  for  thy  help,  so  strong  the  tide 
That  bore  it  out  beyond  my  reaching  crook. 
But  not  beyond  those  delicate  hands  of  thine, 
Reaching  from  out  the  lilies  that  concealed 
Thy  whiter  breast,  to  which  the  lamb  was  drawn, 
Bleating  for  joy,  and  safely  borne  ashore. 
Beneath  thy  loosened  hair,  that  like  a  veil 
Fell  to  thy  feet,  and  sowed  a  shower  of  pearl. 
O  Cyclops,  Cyclops,  it  were  well  for  thee 
Had  thy  one  eye  been  blinded  like  Orion's, 
Or  ever  thou  hadst  seen  that  fatal  sight  ! 

But  hearken  yet,  Demeter,  let  me  speak. 
And  I  will  guide  thee  to  the  mountain  path 
That  winds  about  the  forges  of  Hephaestos. 

Again  at  noon  she  came,  and  fed  the  lamb 
With  handfuls  of  long  grass,  and  wove  the  tlowers 
To  crown  her  dripping  tresses  while   I   went 
Through  Hybla,  drumming  on  the  hollow  oaks 
Swarming  with  bees,  till   I  had  filled  my  cup 
With  lucent  honey,  which  I  gave  to  her  ; 
For  then  she  did  not  fear  to  let  me  sit 


THE   SEARCH   FOR   PERSEPHONE.  157 

Beside  her  feet,  nor  fear  my  gifts  of  love  : 

But  when  she  left  me,  floating  like  a  swan 

To  seek  the  sea  again  blew  kisses  back. 

Had  I  been  blest  with  fins,  like  happy  fish, 

I  would  have  followed  in  her  glittering  wake, 

And  scared  away  the  amorous  River  Gods. 

But  had  I  been  a  River  God  myself, 

I  would  have  dived  to  her  in  the  cold  deeps. 

Be  sure  I  had  not  failed  to  find  her  there, 

For  ruffled  waves  are  clear  as  air  to  me  ; 

And  oft  at  noon  I  watched  her  rising  slow 

Through  shimmering  leagues  of  water  like  a  star. 

I  gave  her  ten  young  fawns  as  black  as  night, 
Soft-eyed  and  delicate  with  silver  feet. 
With  each  a  collar,  and  a  chain  of  pearl. 
She  clapped  her  hands  for  joy,  and  smoothed  my  check 
Until  I  laughed  and  wept  :  her  hands  were  soft, 
But  mine  are  rougher  than  the  mountain  briars. 

But  hearken  still,  and  let  me  speak  again, 
For  now  I  touch  upon  my  grief  and  loss, 
Which  had  not  been  but  for  another's  love 
Thrust  in  between  mine  own  and  Galatea, 
Whom  all  the  shepherds  worshipped,  but  afar, 
Till  Acis  came,  and  spake.     How  did  he  dare 
Step  in  between  the  Cyclops  and  his  love  ? 
And  how  could  she  endure  his  boyish  face 
Half-hid  in  yellow  ringlets  after  me. 
Whose  mighty  heart  pulsed  fire  at  every  beat! 

But  let  me  speak  again,  and  I  have  done. 
I  sat  last  eve  upon  the  slope  of  hills, 
What  time  the  sunset  tipped,  as  now,  the  woods, 
And  saw  a  double  shadow  on  the  mead — 
7* 


158  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

Two  shadows  clasped  in  one,  with  kissing  lips  ; 
'Twas  Acis,  and  the  faithless  Galatea. 
They  were  too  busy  then  to  think  of  me, 
But  I,   I   saw  them  there,  and  spake  no  word, 
But  crept  in  silence  up  from  peak  to  peak, 
Till,  with  sore  labor,  straining  all  my  strength, 
I  lifted  from  its  bed  a  crag  of  rock, 
And  cast  it  down  upon  the  dreaming  fools, 
Thinking  to  crush  them  both,  nor  had  1   failed, 
But  that  its  falling  shadow  like  a  cloud 
Startled  the  nymph,  who  suddenly  leaped  aside 
To  see  him  crushed  and  buried  where  he  stood. 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  cold  earth,  despite  his  moans 
Nor  might  her  tears,  which  fell  around  like  rain, 
Nor  all  her  prayers,  restore  him  to  her  arms, 
Unless  she  found  him  in  the  turbid  stream 
Which  gushed  from  out  the  rock,  and  followed  her, 
Flying  with  shrieks  of  terror  to  the  sea! 

But  come,  Demeter,  let  us  rise  and  go  ; 
The  lean,  gray  wolves  will  soon  begin  to  prowl, 
And  I   must  pen  my  flocks;  but  let  us  go." 

Thus  Polyphemos  told  his  tale  of  love  : 
And  spying  at  his  feet  the  bleating  ewe. 
He  lifted  it  with  care  in  his  rough  arms, 
And  led  the  Goddess  from  the  foamy  beach, 
Full  to  the  west  again,  where  now  the  Sun 
Had  plunged  his  broad  red  disc  in  seas  of  cloud. 


ON  A  child's  picture.  159 


ON  A  CHILD'S  PICTURE. 

I   LAY  his  picture  on  my  knee, 
The  knee  he  loves  to  sit  upon. 
It  is  the  image  of  my  son, 

And  like  the  child  a  world  to  me. 

He  fronts  me  in  a  little  chair, 
In  careless  ease,  and  quiet  grace, 
A  courtly  deference  in  his  face, 

A  glory  in  his  shining  hair. 

An  infant  prince,  a  baby  king, 
To  whom  his  ministers  relate 
Some  intricate  affair  of  state  : 

He  hears,  and  weighs  the  smallest  thing. 

Happy  the  day  when  he  was  born, 

Two  summers  since,  my  summer  child  : 
Two  Junes  have  on  his  cradle  smiled, 

A  rose  of  June  without  a  thorn. 

I  stood  beside  his  mother's  bed 

When  he  was  born,  at  dead  of  night. 
My  heart  grew  faint  with  its  delight  ; 

I  heard  his  cry  :    he  was  not  dead  ! 

And  she,  his  mother,  dearer  far 

Than  this  poor  life  of  mine  can  be, 
She  lives,  she  weeps,  she  clings  to  me, 

Her  dim  eye  brightening  like  a  star. 


l6o  SONGS    OF   SUMMER, 

We  heard  his  low  uncertain  moan, 
In  both  our  souls  it  smote  a  chord 
Not  reached  by  Love's  divinest  word  ; 

It  stirred,  and  stirs  to  him  alone. 

"  We  have  a  child/"     We  smiled  and  wept. 
He  slept  :    God's  Angel  in  the  dark 
Pushed  down  the  stream  his  little  bark, 

And  with  it  ours  :    with  him  we  slept. 

At  last  the  lingering  summer  passed. 
The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came, 
The  dying  woods  were  all  a-flame, 

The  leaves  were  whirling  in  the  blast. 

He  lived  ;    our  loving  spirits  wore 
A  royal  diadem  of  joy  : 
Time  laid  his  hands  upon  the  boy, 

And  day  by  day  he  ripened  more. 

His  dreamy  eye  grew  like  the  sky, 
A  liquid  blue,  half  dark,  half  bright  ; 
Now  like  the  moon,  and  now  like  night 

With  silver  planets  sown  on  high. 

His  thin,  pale  ringlets  turn  to  gold, 
And  gleam  like  suns  on  autumn  eves ; 
Or  like  the  sober  autumn  sheaves. 

Whose  strawy  fires  are  faint  and  cold. 

I  take  his  picture  from  my  knee. 
And  press  it  to  my  lips  again  : 
I  see  an  hundred  in  my  brain, 

And  all  of  him,  and  dear  to  me. 


ON  A  child's  picture.  i6i 

He  nestles  in  his  nurse's  arms, 

His  young  eyes  winking  in  the  hght : 
I  hear  his  sudden  shriek  at  night, 

Startled  in  dreams  by  vague  alarms. 

We  walk  the  floor,  and  hush  his  moan ; 

Again  he  sleeps  :    we  kiss  his  brow. 

I  toss  him  on  my  shoulder  now, 
His  Majesty  is  on  the  throne  ! 

His  kingly  clutch  is  in  my  hair,  ^ 

He  sees  a  rival  in  the  glass  : 

It  stares,  and  passes  as  we  pass  ; 
It  fades.     I  breathe  the  country  air. 

I  see  a  cottage  leagues  from  here, 

A  garden  near,  some  orchard  trees, 

A  leafy  glimpse  of  creeping  seas. 
And  in  the  cottage  something  dear. 

A  square  of  sunlight  on  the  floor, 

Blocked  from  the  window ;    in  the  square 
A  happy  child  with  heavenly  hair. 

To  whom  the  world  is  more  and  more. 

He  sees  the  blue  fly  beat  the  pane, 
Buzzing  away  the  noon-tide  hours, 
The  terrace  grass,  the  scattered  flowers, 

The  beetles,  and  the  beads  of  rain. 

He  sees  the  gravelled  walk  below, 
The  narrow  arbor  draped  with  vines. 
The  light  that  like  an  emerald  shines, 

The  small  bird  hopping  to  and  fro. 


l62  SONGS   OF   SUMMER. 

He  drinks  their  linked  beauty  in, 
They  fill  his  thought  with  silent  joy  : 
But  now  he  spies  a  late-dropped  toy, 

And  all  his  noisy  pranks  begin. 

They  bear  him  to  an  upper  room 

When  comes  the  eve  ;    he  hums  for  me. 
Like  some  voluptuous  drowsy  bee, 

That  shuts  his  wings  in  honeyed  gloom. 

I  see  a  shadow  in  a  chair, 

I  see  a  shadowy  cradle  go, 

I  hear  a  ditty,  soft  and  low  : 
The  mother  and  the  child  are  there. 

At  length  the  balm  of  sleep  is  shed. 

One  bed  contains  my  bud  and  flower. 

They  sleep,  and  dream,  and  hour  by  hour 
Goes  by,  while  angels  watch  the  bed. 

Sleep  on,  and  dream,  ye  blessed  pair  ! 

My  prayers  shall  guard  ye  night  and  day ; 

Ye  guard  me  so,  ye  make  me  pray, 
Ye  make  my  happy  life  a  prayer. 

Dream  on,  dream  on  !    and  in  your  dreams 
Remember  me, — I  love  ye  well  : 
I  love  ye  more  than  tongue  can  tell, 

Dear  Souls,  and  ere  the  morning  beams 

My  soul  shall  strike  your  trail  of  sleep, 
In  some  enchanted,  holy  place, 
And  fold  ye  in  a  fond  embrace, 

And  kiss  ye  till  with  bliss  I  weep  ! 


THE   KING'S   BELL. 


THE  KING'S   BELL. 

"  For  Heaven'' s  sake,  lei  us  sit  upon  the  ground, 
And  tell  sad  stories  of  the  death  of  kings. ^^ 

Shakespeare. 

Prince  Felix  at  his  father's  death  was  King. 
So  he  commanded  all  the  bells  to  ring 
A  jubilant  peal,  and  bade  his  heralds  say 
From  that  time  forward  every  happy  day 
Should  so  be  honored.     "  Not  an  hour  will  pass, 
Nay,  scarce  the  turning  of  the  smallest  glass, 
Without  the  merry  clamor  of  my  bells. 
In  sooth  I  think  they'll  banish  funeral  knells, 
And  set  the  mourners  dancing.     I  shall  be 
So  happy  the  whole  world  will  envy  me." 

Thus  spake  the  new-made  monarch,  and  indeed 
He  had  some  grounds  to  justify  his  creed. 
Imprimis,  he  was  young,  and  youth,  we  know. 
Cannot  be  wretched,  if  it  would  be  so. 
For  grant  it  sometimes  weeps,  and  seems  to  pine, 
It  feels  through  all  its  royal  self  like  wine. 
Then  he  was  rich  as  Croesus  :  bags  of  gold 
Heaped  up  his  treasury,  and  wealth  untold 
Smouldered  in  guarded  chests  of  precious  stones, 
And  blazed  like  stars  in  sceptres,  crowns,  and  thrones. 


i66  THE  king's  bell. 

Powerful,  and  rich,  and  young — in  short  a  King, 
O  happy  man,  why  should  his  bells  not  ring  ? 

He  built  himself  a  palace,  like  his  state, 
Magnificent,  with  many  a  marble  gate  ; 
A  great  dome  in  the  centre,  and  thereon 
A  gilded  belfry,  shining  like  the  sun. 
And  in  it  hung  a  bell  of  wondrous  tone, 
From  which  a  silken  cord  ran  to  his  throne  : 
Nor  only  there,  but  o'er  his  royal  bed. 
(O  how  unlike  the  sword  above  the  head 
Of  that  unhappy  King  of  olden  time  !) 
"  My  people  will  be  deafened  by  its  chime," 
Quoth  he,  when  all  was  done.     And  now  began 
That  perfect  life  not  yet  vouchsafed  to  man. 
He  chose  his  ministers  as  monarchs  should, 
Among  the  oldest  men,  the  great  and  good. 
And,  placing  in  their  hands  the  reins  of  State, 
Charged  them  to  make  his  people  good  and  great. 
"  For  me,"  he  thought,  "  an  idle  life  is  best  : 
They  love  to  bustle — let  them,  I  shall  rest." 
He  lolled  upon  his  couch  with  dreamy  eyes, 
Watching  he  cared  not  what — the  summer  skies, 
The  nest  of  swans,  the  fountain's  rise  and  fall. 
The  light  and  shadow  shifting  on  the  wall. 
Perchance  he  ordered  music  ;  at  the  word 
His  fancy  flattered  from  its  trance  was  stirred 
And  quickened  with  sweet  sounds,  from  harp  and  lute. 
Or  some  rich  voice  that  chid  the  music  mute. 
Ten  times  a  day  he  stretched  his  hand  to  ring 
The  bell,  he  felt  so  glad,  but  some  slight  thing, 
A  buzzing  gnat,  the  wind  too  cold,  or  hot. 
Deterred  him  till  the  impulse  was  forgot. 
"  Have  you  been  happy?"  something  seemed  to  say 
At  night  :   "  I  see  you  have  not  rung  to-day." 


THE   king's   bell.  167 

"  I  must  have  been  too  idle,"  he  replied. 
And  then,  at  dawn  :  "  I  will  arise,  and  ride 
A  league  or  two  in  the  dew  and  morning  wind, 
'Twill  freshen  and  revive  my  drowsy  mind." 
He  called  a  sleeping  groom  who  cursed  his  fate, 
And  bade  him  take  his  courser  to  the  gate, 
That  he  might  mount  unseen,  and  ride  away, 
Before  the  court  was  stirring  for  the  day. 
The  courser  soon  was  saddled,  and  the  groom 
Returned,  still  yawning,  to  the  monarch's  room, 
But  found  him  fast  asleep,  so  back  he  crept,     , 
And  late  that  day  both  groom  and  monarch  slept. 

The  listless  hours  in  idle  reveries  spent 
Stung  Felix  to  a  noble  discontent, 
For  shamed  to  think  he  loved  his  ease  so  well, 
And  longing  for  the  music  of  the  bell, 
He  charged  the  groom  to  bring  his  steed  once  more. 
And  if  he  slumbered  thunder  on  his  door 
Until  he  woke.     "  And  harkee,  sirrah,  see 
That  I  rise,  too,  or  'twill  be  worse  with  thee." 
'Twas  done.     Adown  the  palace  walk  he  spurred 
Into  the  misty  dark,  unseen,   unheard  ; 
Through  meadows  where  the  trampling  of  his  steed 
P'ell  muffled,  noiseless  as  a  winged  seed, 
Sown  by  soft  airs  where  endless  summer  smiles  ; 
Through  forest  shades,  like  dim  Cathedral  aisles 
Arching  beneath  a  sky  of  brightening  blue. 
Sometimes  he  touched  a  spray  and  showers  of  dew 
Baptized  him,  or  some  small  bird,  half  awake. 
Twittered  an  early  ditty  for  his  sake. 
How  sweet  the  morning  was,  how  cool  the  wind  ! 
A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  his  waking  mind. 
And  faster  flowed  the  current  of  his  blood. 
His  proud  steed  bore  him  onward  like  a  flood. 


i68  THE  king's  bell. 

Shaking  from  his  champed  bit  the  snow-white  foam. 

The  larks  up-springing  from  their  grassy  home, 

Winging  the  deeps  of  air,  a  jubilant  choir; 

The  leaden  clouds  consumed  with  morning's  fire, 

Melting  in  seas  of  gold  :    the  silver  rills, 

The  broad  champaign,  the  woods,  the  purple  hills — 

He  saw,  and  felt  them  all,  and  filled  with  joy 

Forgot  the   King,  and  shouted  like  a  boy, 

And  rising  in  his  stirrups  clutched  the  air 

As  if  to  ring  his  bell — ah,  why  was  it  not  there  ? 

Was  Felix  "happy  ?     Had  you  asked  him  then 
He  would  have  said,  "  The  happiest  of  men." 
But  when  a' league  was  past,  and  he  rode  back, 
His  brow  was  knitted,  and  his  bridle  slack. 
His  little  "burst  of  happiness  was  o'er. 
And  he  was  sadder,  idler  than  before  ; 
For  what  but  pain  could  this  remembrance  bring — 
Thou  art  a  boy  no  longer  but  a  King  ? 

Returning  gloomy  to  the  court  he  sought 
The  crowded  Council-chamber,  grave  with  thought, 
But  meeting  at  the  door  a  merry  lord. 
Who  made  a  lowly  bow  and  begged  a  word. 
He  stopped  and  heard,  alas,  with  greedy  ear, 
A  trifling  tale,  not  meet  for  him  to  hear, 
A  bit  of  scandalous  gossip,  then  a  jest. 
The  laughing  pair  linked  arms  :    you  guess  the  rest. 
That  day  the  Council  met  without  the  King. 
At  night  there  was  a  sound  of  revelling 
Within  the  banquet-chamber,  loud  and  late. 
There  Felix  sat,  oblivious  of  his  state. 
Carousing  with  the  roysterers  of  his  court. 
And  what  a  drunken  King  should  be — their  sport. 
They  clinked  their  glasses  with  him,  or  they  sang 


THE   king's   bell.  169 

Light  songs,  and  shouted  till  the  palace  rang, 

Or  stamped  in  chorus  when  he  rose  to  speak. 

At  last  the  boldest,  in  a  tipsy  freak, 

Would  play  the  King  himself;    he  touched  the  crown, 

But  Feli.x,  roused  a  moment,  smote  him  down 

Bleeding  among  the  wine  cups.     "  Fool,  lie  there  ! 

Crowns  were  not  made  for  such  as  you  to  wear." 

He  spurned  him  with  his  foot.     A  draught  of  wine 

Washed  out  the  insult  to  his  right  divine, 

And  set  his  swimming  thoughts  adrift  again  ; 

The  purple  sea  kept  mounting  to  his  brain. 

"  I  hear,"  he  said,  "  a  buzzing  in  my  ears. 

The  echoed  music  of  the  happy  spheres  : 

What  waves  of  sound,  and  how  they  sink  and  swell ! 

It  must  be  time  to  ring  my  golden  bell." 

He  rose,  and  staggering  to  his  chamber-door 

To  ring  the  bell  he  fell  upon  the  floor. 

And  while  his  soberer  guests  their  revels  kept 

He  lay  and  moaned  for  help.     At  last  he  slept. 

What  cup  shall  he  drain  next  ?     What  chase  pursue, 
Whose  end  is  happiness,  and  pleasure,  too? 
The  bell  is  silent  still,  ah,  who  can  tell 
What  he  must  do  to  ring  the  happy  bell  ? 
He  rose  betimes  and  rode,  no  more  alone. 
For  when  his  taste  for  horsemanship  was  known, 
The  court  was  seized  o'th'  sudden  with  the  whim 
Of  early  rising,  and  would  hunt  with  him  ; 
So  when  day  broke  you  might  have  seen  a  train 
Of  lords  and  ladies  spurring  o'er  the  plain, 
With  hawks  upon  their  wrists,  or  hounds  behind, 
The  ready  puppets  of  the  royal  mind. 
The  court  of  Felix,  histories  say,  was  then 
Famed  for  its  lovely  dames  and  gallant  men. 
His  first  temptation  was  a  merry  face, 
8 


I70  THE   king's   bell. 

Crimsoned  with  healthful  roses  in  the  chase  : 

His  next  a  little  tress  of  dangling  hair, 

Blown  o'er  plump  shoulders  with  a  jaunty  air  : 

His  third  a  white  hand  on  a  palfrey's  mane, 

Or  small  foot  peeping  from  a  flowing  train. 

Or  it  may  be  on  some  sweet  night  in  June, 

When  o'er  the  park  there  hung  a  yellow  moon, 

"While  on  the  banks  reclined  maids  told  their  tales. 

Or  singing  hushed  the  amorous  nightingales. 

He  came  on  beauty,  grace,  perfection  there, 

In  ripe,  round  forms,  white  robes,  and  night-dark  hair ; 

Or  met  a  mask,  in  some  dim  nook  apart, 

Whose  lustrous  eyes  shot  passion  to  his  heart. 

Not  his  a  lesser  lover's  doubt  and  pain, 
He  was  assured  of  being  loved  again. 
For  was  he  not  a  King  ?     What  woman  would 
Withhold  her  heart  from  him  ?     No  woman  could. 
His  first  love  was  a  fair,  but  fragile  maid. 
With  drooping,  violet  eyes,  half  light,  half  shade, 
A  sweet,  pale  face,  a  little  touched  with  care, 
And  nothing  bright  about  her  save  her  hair. 
Poor,  fading  flower,  she  had  not  time  to  die 
Before  the  fickle  Felix  cast  her  by. 
And  plucked  another,  eager  for  her  fate, 
A  full-blown  beauty,  made  of  love  and  hate. 
With  bold,  black  eyes,  that  smouldered  with  desire, 
Or  through  its  ashes  flashed  a  dangerous  fire  ; 
About  her  brow  great  coils  of  midnight  hair, 
With  one  fierce  ruby  like  a  comet  there  ; 
Cheeks  brown  as  olives,  with  a  bloomy  streak 
Like  twilight  burning  in  each  dusky  cheek  : 
A  passionate,  scornful  mouth,  a  hand  superb, 
Moulded  to  grasp  a  sceptre,  or  to  curb 


THE   KINGS   BELL.  171 

The  tameless  spirit  of  a  desert  steed  : 

A  heart  that  loved  to  make  the  hearts  of  others  bleed  ! 

"The  King  should  wed,"  the  people  thought  at  last; 
"  'Tis  time  the  follies  of  his  youth  were  past, 
And  something  better  grafted  in  their  stead. 
We  need  a  Prince  to  rule  when  he  is  dead." 

"  O  mighty  Felix  !  "     Thus  his  Poet  sung, 
(His  glowing  fancy  showed  that  he  was  young,) 
"  Until  they  see  a  bud  upon  the  tree 
They  fear  that  beauty's  rose  will  die  with  thee  ; 
Put  forth  a  bloom  to  comfort  them,  and  save 
Thy  rich  remembrance  from  the  sullen  grave. 
An  hundred  fair  princesses  whose  bright  eyes 
Are  dowered  with  kingdoms  waste  their  days  in  sighs, 
Thinking  of  thee,  great  King  !     O,  let  thy  heart, 
Maugre  its  royal  rigor,  take  their  part 
Against  itself,  and  thy  too-cruel  mind  ; 
If  not  to  all,  to  one,  at  least,  be  kind. 
Select  a  Queen,  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
To  grace  thy  marriage-bed,  and  bear  an  heir. 
Thereby  thou  liv'st  again,  but  dying  now, 
Thou  art  but  ashes — dust,  no  Phoenix,  thou, 
That  after  crumbling  on  the  funeral  pyre. 
Rises  triumphant  by  its  own  bright  fire. 
Then  leave  a  son  when  thou  art  laid  to  rest. 
Whose  golden  plumes  shall  light  thy  royal  nest." 

The  Council,  too.      Not  in  such  dainty  words. 
But  in  the  pithy  phrases  of  grave  lords. 
Who  thinking  much  say  little.     "  He  must  wed." 
The  reasons  followed.     One  grave  seignor  said, 
"  The  State  demands  it,"  (words  of  awful  weight !) 
Another,  "Yes,  the  welfare  of  the  State." 
Carried  at  last  he  weds.     With  whom  ?     They  scanned 
Each  marriageable  princess  in  the  land. 


1/2  THE   KING  S   BELL. 

One  brings  five  duchies,  and  a  million  down, 

And  one  a  kingdom,  but  disputed  crown. 

The  third  a  silver  mine,  (but  she  is  old,) 

The  fourth,  (still  older,)  several  mines  of  gold. 

They  chose  a  maid  whom  Felix  had  not  seen, 

More  fitted  for  an  Abbess  than  a  Queen, 

For  in  a  cloister's  shade  her  youth  had  passed, 

In  virgin  dreams  of  Heaven — too  bright  to  last. 

When  Felix  heard  their  choice,  (the  Council  found 

The  royal  idler  playing  with  his  hound,) 

He  sighed,  and  said,  "  I  wish  the  lady  joy  ! 

We  look  for  folly  in  a  beardless  boy, 

And  wisdom  in  gray  hairs  ;  but  yours,   I  see, 

Thatch  something  worse  than  folly — cruelty. 

Cruel,  I  say,  for  can  she  hope  to  be 

Happy  (she  can  not)  with  a  man  like  me  ? 

Enough  ;  I  take  the  sacrifice  ye  bring, 

And  though  no  lover  I  am  still  a  King." 

He  sent  a  lord  who  grew  up  by  his  side. 
With  a  long  train  of  knights,  to  wed  the  bride. 
Were  I  to  paint  them  on  their  merry  way, 
The  time  should  be  the  lover's  season — May, 
The  sky  an  arch  of  sapphire,  set  in  light, 
Birds  singing  in  the  trees,  the  hedges  white. 
Then  I'd  describe  the  pile  wherein  they  wed. 
The  fretted  arches  stretching  overhead, 
The  saints  and  martyrs  in  the  blazoned  panes. 
Through  which  in  a  rich  dusk  the  sunlight  rains. 
The  organ's  burst,  the  choir,  the  hymn,  the  prayer. 
The  mitred  Abbot,  and  the  noble  Pair  I 
Then  over  many  a  river  and  wide  plain 
Back  to  the  court  again  should  sweep  the  train, 
With  purple  banners  dancing  in  the  air, 
And  proud  steeds  tramping  to  the  trumpet's  blare. 


THE    king's   bell.  1/3 

And  in  the  midst  the  lady,  riding  slow, 

Checking  her  ambling  palfrey  white  as  snow. 

"Long  live  the  Queen!"     She  knows  the  city  near, 

Before  she  sees  its  gleaming  towers  appear 

Above  the  belt  of  woods  that  shut  it  in, 

For  the  wind  bears  her  snatches  of  the  din 

That  welcomes  her  approach  :  a  noise  of  bells 

Blended  with  shouts  and  music  sinks  and  swells, 

Until  the  city  bursts  upon  her  sight, 

Towers,  temples,  palaces,  a-blaze  with  light. 

The  wall  is  hung  with  broidered  cloths  of  gold, 

And  she  can  see  her  name  on  every  fold ; 

"Agnes  and  Felix"  glitters  everywhere. 

White  hands  strew  flowers  upon  her  till  the  air 

That  stirs  her  veil  grows  languid  with  their  sweets ; 

Triumphal  arches  span  the  spacious  streets, 

Alive  with  merry  faces,  and  bright  eyes, 

And  clapping  hands,  and  shouts  that  rend  the  skies. 

When  she  draws  near  the  palace  from  the  crowd 

A  herald  steps,  and  blows  his  trumpet  loud, 

Thrice  at  the  gates,  which  on  their  hinges  swing, 

Opening  within  where  she  beholds  the  King, 

Who,  waiting  her  approach,   in  royal  state, 

Comes  like  the  Sun  through  Morning's  golden  gate. 

Dismounting  from  her  steed  the  trembling  bride 

Gives  him  her  hand,  and  slowly,  side  by  side, 

They  cross  the  palace-threshold,  and  the  gate. 

Still  to  the  trumpet's  clang,  closes  behind  like  Fate. 

He  led  her  straightway  to  the  balcony, 

A  robed  and  crowned  Queen  for  all  to  see. 

"  Long  live  the  Queen  !  "  "  Long  live  the  happy  King  !" 

The  bells,  a  moment  mute,  began  to  ring 

Louder  than  ever,  whirling  round  and  round, 

Drunken,  delirious  in  the  storm  of  sound 

That  rocked  the  lofty  belfries  to  and  fro. 


174  THE   king's   bell. 

And  up  and  down  the  living  sea  below 
Ran  a  great  wind  of  shouts,  and,  wrapt  in  smoke, 
From  throats  of  grim  black  cannon  thunders  broke. 
The  streets  were  full  of  shows,  and  all  were  free, 
Rope-dancing,  juggling,  mumming,  minstrelsy, 
Soldiers,  and  music's  merriment  divine. 
And,  better  still,  the  fountains  flowed  with  wine. 
So  passed  the  day  ;  at  night  the  palace  park 
Was  hung  with  lamps  that  lit  the  leafy  dark. 
And  showers  of  stars,  from  hissing  rockets  shed, 
Mocked  with  their  rainbow  fires  the  stars  o'erhead. 
Meanwhile  the  bells  kept  ringing  in  their  towers, 
Hailing  with  jubilant  throats  the  joyous  hours. 
But  one  was  still — (it  would  have  struck  a  knell. 
Had  Felix  touched  the  cord,) — the  happy  bell ! 

And  is  he  then  so  wretched?     Nay,  not  so. 
Between  the  neighbor  lands  of  Joy  and  Wo 
There  is  a  middle  state  where  many  dwell, 
Benumbed  as  in  a  dream  by  some  strange  spell. 
And  thus  it  is  with  Felix,  whose  desires, 
Raging  intensely  like  volcanic  fires, 
Have  burned  away,  and  left  a  waste  behind, 
A  heart  of  ashes,  and  a  barren  mind. 
He  does  not  love  the  woman  he  has  wed. 
For  love  with  him  like  happiness  is  dead. 
If  she  loves  him — she  may — she  loves  not  well. 
How  could  a  maid  bred  in  a  convent-cell, 
And  schooled  by  priests,  know  what  a  man  demands 
In  her  he  loves — what  work  of  heart,  or  hands  ? 
She  knew  to  count  her  beads,  and  say  her  prayers, 
But  not  to  share  his  joys,  and  soothe  his  cares. 
Wavering  between  her  faith  and  what  she  felt, 
When  he  was  near  her  tender  heart  would  melt, 
But  thoughts  of  Heaven  would  check  her  sinful  bliss, 


THE   KING  S    BELL.  1/5 

For  she  loved  him  and  Heaven,  and  both  amiss. 

Unhappy  pair,  I  pity  your  sad  fate, 

Not  wise  enough  to  love,  too  wise  to  hate. 

God  made  ye  both  unlike,  in  brain  and  heart. 

But  Man  hath  joined  what  God  would  keep  apart. 

The  wrong  is  common,  common,  too,  the  cure  ; 

There  is  but  one — forgive,  forget,  endure, 

So  shall  the  heart  its  fruitless  struggles  cease, 

And,  if  not  happy,  be  at  least  at  peace. 

But  peace  was  not  for  Agnes.     She  was  one 
Who  could  be  only  what  she  was — a  nun. 
She  made  the  court  a  convent.     Tolerant,  wise, 
Poor  Felix  stood  aloof,  with  watchful  eyes, 
Guarding  his  wife  as  if  she  were  a  child, 
A  kind  but  thoughtful  man,  who  seldom  smiled, 
But  as  his  hopes  of  happiness  grew  less, 
Labored  to  give  his  people  happiness. 
And  they  were  happy.     Well  they  might  be  so  ; 
No  wars,  large  harvests,  and  their  taxes  low. 
Their  King  was  just,  their  Queen  was  good  and  fair, 
Besides,  there  was  a  promise  of  an  heir. 
"  God  send  a  boy!"  they  said.     The  days  went  by 
Like  withered  leaves  when  autumn  winds  are  high. 
Or  whirling  snow  flakes  :  autumn,  winter  passed. 
Snows  melted,  budded  leaves,  spring  came  at  last. 

The  long-expected  child  was  born  with  spring. 
They  bore  the  joyous  tidings  to  the  King, 
Who  paced  his  chamber  with  an  anxious  brow, 
And  gravely  wondered  :  "Am  I   happy  now? 
A  father,  tell  me  " — But  his  challenged  heart, 
Disdaining  parley,  took  the  infant's  part. 
Whose  cry  he  heard,  and  forced  him  to  confess 
A  natural,  manly  thrill  of  happiness. 


176  THE   king's   bell. 

He  stretched  his  hand  to  ring  the  silent  bell, 

But  the  grasped  cord  from  out  his  fingers  fell, 

For  entering  now  the  grave  physician  said, 

"  Forbear  your  joy,  my  liege,  the  Queen  is  dead  ! 

A  deathly  pallor  seized  him  when  he  heard 

These  doleful  words  :    he  neither  spake,  nor  stirred, 

But  stood  transfixed  to  marble — all  surprise. 

Two  great  tears  welling  from  his  blinded  eyes. 

Why  did  he  weep?     He  did  not  love  the  Queen. 

What  could  she  be  to  him  ?     What  had  she  been  ? 

Why  should  her  death  so  move  him  ?     It  may  be 

He  sees  therein  his  own  mortality, 

Or,  sadder  still,  the  solemn  doom  of  all. 

If  so,  his  not  unmanly  tears  may  fall. 

But  be  more  just,  and  say  his  heart  is  wrung 

With  natural  pity  that  she  died  so  young. 

He  weeps  to  think  his  joyless  marriage-bed 

Has  borne  at  once  the  living  and  the  dead, 

That  she  has  died  to  give  his  infant  life, 

In  short  he  weeps  because  he  loved  his  wife ! 

Yes,  Felix  loved  her,  strange  as  it  may  seem. 

His  long  indifference  was  a  troubled  dream  ; 

It  left  him  darkly  in  his  sorest  strait. 

He  woke  at  last,  but  woke,  alas,  too  late. 

He  loved  her  now,  the  bitter  Past  forgot, 

Nor  owned  there  was  a  time  he  loved  her  not. 

"  But  grant  it  true,"  (here  Conscience  seemed  to  wake,) 

"  I  would  have  loved  her  for  the  Prince's  sake." 

All  this  and  more,  a  world  of  hopeless  pain 

Brooded  like  death  upon  his  heart  and  brain. 

Until  he  heard  his  new-born  infant's  cry. 

Which  called  him  back  to  life  with  many  a  sigh. 

"  Be  calm,  the  child  is  living,  Sire."     He  smiled  : 

"  But  she  is  dead  !  "  then  went  to  see  his  child. 


THE  KING  s  1!i:ll.  177 

She  lay  in  state,  beneath  a  canopy, 
Three  mortal  days  for  all  tlie  court  to  see, 
In  royal  robes,  her  crown   upon  her  head, 
With  holy  tapers  burning  round  her  bed  ; 
And  prayers  were  said,  and  heavenly  hymns  arose, 
And  mass  was  chanted  for  her  soul's  repose. 
Ah,  Rcqiiiescat  '     Then  the  funeral  show, 
The  gorgeous  pageant  of  a  nation's  wo, 
The  slow,  sad  march,  the  tap  of  mournful  drums, 
The  death-like  hush  that  tells  the  body  comes. 
The  great  car,  seen  afar,  the  turbaned  grooms, 
The  led  steeds,  haughty  with  their  ostrich  plumes, 
The   King  in  his  black  coach— Why  do  they  bring 
In  Death's   triumphal  march  the  happy  King? 
Deep  in  an  old  Cathedral's  holy  gloom 
They  buried  her  with  tears,  and  on  her  tomb 
Carved  in  white  marble  like  a  drift  of  snow 
An  Agnus  Dei,  with  her  name  below  — 
*'  Agnes,  the  Wife  of  Felix,"  (wretched  wife  !) 
The  rest  was  written  in  the  Book  of  Life. 

A  dreadful  shadow  in  the  palace  lay 
Long  after  the  poor  Queen  had  passed  awav, 
And  the  court  doffed  its  customary  black  : 
Yea,  till  her  virgin  dust  had  mouldered  back 
To  the  cold  dust  it  sprung  from  !     It  was  not 
That  Felix  missed  her  in  some  hallowed  spot, 
And  peopled  it  with  memories,   (say,  her  room,) 
But  that  her  image  filled  the  haunted  gloom. 
He  saw  her  as  she  used  to  be  in  life, 
A  loving  woman,  but  a  troubled  wife. 
Bent  o'er  her  broidery  frame,  while  roses  grew 
Beneath  her  fingers,  wet  with  silver  dew  : 
Or  where  like  nuns  her  spotless  lilies  stood, 
The  beauteous  abbess  of  the  sisterhood ; 


1/8  THE   king's   bell. 

Or  in  her  chapel  with  ecstatic  air, 

TeUing  her  rosary,  each  bead  a  prayer  ; 

Or  standing  saintly  in  the  moon's  faint  hght, 

Beside  the  cradle  at  the  dead  of  night  ; 

The  ghostly  mother  kissed  her  sleeping  child, 

That  in  its  dream  stretched  out  its  arms  and  smiled. 

What  Felix  felt,  his  wo  or  happiness, 
Only  a  father's  loving  heart  can  guess. 
Be  sure  he  loved  the  babe,  whose  helpless  life 
Cost  it,  poor  thing,  its  mother,  him  his  wife, 
And  when  his  State-craft  could  be  brushed  away, 
Stole  in  to  see  it  twenty  times  a  day, 
Hung  o'er  its  slumbers,  if  perchance  it  slept. 
And  gazed  till  called,  then  out  on  tip-toe  crept ; 
Returning  soon  to  gaze  his  fill  again, 
Perchance  to  still  its  little  cry  of  pain. 
With  infant  lullabies  and  drowsy  charms  ; 
Or,  sweeter  far,  to  take  it  in  his  arms, 
And  pace  the  floor  until  it  sank  to  rest, 
A  smiling  burden  on  his  aching  breast. 
The  love  he  would  have  lavished  on  the  Queen, 
But  for  that  dreadful  cloud  that  came  between, 
Clung  to  the  child  as  if  his  heart  would  break  : 
He  loved  it  madly  for  its  mother's  sake. 
To  paint  his  passion  in  its  fond  extremes, 
The  hopes,  the  fears,  the  endless  golden  dreams 
He  built  on  that  frail  life  an  hour  might  blight; 
Haunting  the  Prince's  cradle  day  and  night, 
Outwatching  all  the  nurses  ;  as  he  grew 
Fetching  him  costly  playthings,  quaint  and  new. 
Teaching  him  pastimes  full  of  merry  noise. 
Devised  by  fathers  to  divert  their  boys  ; 
Making  grim  shadows  that  awoke  his  fears. 
The  heads  of  rams  or,  sheep  with  monstrous  ears, 


THE   KIXOS    DELL,  179 

IJiowsing  along  the  wall  with  piteous  bleat ; 

Trotting  him  now  a  cock-horse  on  his  feet, 

With  breathless  shouts,  and  eager,  clapping  hands, 

Through  wondrous  ways  in  undiscovered  lands. 

The  fairy  world  of  Nowhere  :  dropping  now 

A  crown  of  kisses  on  his  baby  brow. 

Then  lifting  him  sedately  to  his  throne. 

The  strong,  broad  shoulder  where  he  sat  alone, 

Fearless  and  proud — he  knew  his  royal  part, 

The  king,  the  tyrant  of  his  father's  heart  : 

To  tell  how  Felix  as  the  years  went  by 

Watched  the  soul  brightening  in  his  soft  blue  eye  ; 

How  while  he  smoothed  his  darkening  hair,  and  smiled, 

He  breathed  the  sigh,  '*  Thou  hast  no  mother,  child  ! " 

How  wandering  in  the  Past  with  vain  regret, 

He  asked  the  heavens,  "  Has  she  forgiven  me  yet?" 

The  volume  of  his  life  where  this  was  writ, 

Could  I  but  open,  and  decipher  it, 

(Be  sure  the  pages  of  the  wasted  years 

Where  that  dead  flower  was  pressed  were  wet  with  tears  !) 

Would  make  a  story,  sadder,  sweeter  far 

Than  any  I  may  try  to  tell,  and    mar  ; 

A  sad,  sweet  story,  worth  a  famous  pen. 

The  tears  of  women,  and  the  thoughts  of  men. 

Write  it  who  can,  let  me  go  on  to  tell 

How  and  when  Felix  rung  the  happy  bell. 

Ten  years  or  more,  (the  time  concerns  us  not. 
Our  epochs  are  the  feelings.  Life  the  plot,) 
He  schooled  himself  in  all  the  craft  of  State, 
The  little  business  of  the  would-be  great. 
Not  from  a  royal  fondness  for  intrigue. 
To  break  a  useless  make  a  useful  league. 
Or  strike  the  sceptre  from  a  brother's  hand, 
But  for  the  good  and  glory  of  his  Land, 


l8o  THE   king's   bell. 

Holding  his  people's  happiness  his  own, 

Their  love  the  best  foundation  for  his  throne. 

No  King  of  all  his  race  so  shrewd  as  he, 

So  great  a  master  of  diplomacy. 

It  mattered  little  whom  his  rivals  sent 

To  sound  his  secrets,  as  they  came  they  went, 

Ambassadors,  who  cunning  trains  had  laid 

How  to  betray,  and  not  to  be  betrayed, 

Old,  crafty  ministers  with  stealthy  eyes. 

Skilled  in  the  courtly  art  of  hinting  lies  ; 

He  baffled  all,  not  by  a  deeper  art. 

But  by  a  clearer  brain,  and  larger  heart. 

Nor  better  fared  the  servants  of  his  throne. 

If  they  mistook  their  wishes  for  his   own, 

Plotting  to  serve  themselves,  and  not  the  State  ; 

Poor  fools,  they  did  but  trifle  with  their  fate. 

'Tis  said  his  Council  was  corrupt  at  first. 

And  the  Bench,  too,  with  venal  judges  cursed, 

Hucksters  who  Law,  and  sometime  Justice  sold. 

Also,   that  in  the  Church,  God's  earthly  fold, 

Thieves  in  the  guise  of  shepherds  oft  did  creep. 

Not  to  keep  out  the  wolves,  but  fleece  the  sheep. 

If  this,  alack,  were  true,  (who  will  may  doubt,) 

He  found  a  way  to  weed  the  culprits  out, 

And  make  his  people  happy.     All  went  well. 

Yet  somehow  Felix  did  not  ring  his  bell. 

At  last  there  came  a  war.     What  led  thereto 
I  have  forgotten,  if  I  ever  knew. 
Doubtless  the  cause  was  just,  or  said  to  be. 
Alike  by  Felix  and  his  enemy, 
The  gray-haired  father  of  his  sainted  Queen, 
Whose  death  had  broken  the  last  bond  between 
Their  rival  kingdoms.      Ha\ing  stri\en  in  vain 
To  keep  the  early  promise  of  his  reign. 


THE   king's   15ELL.  l8l 

And  live  and  die  beneath  a  peaceful  star, 

Felix,  prepared,  resolved  on  sudden  war. 

And  marched  his  armies  on  the  unready  foe, 

Who  fled  before  the  shadow  of  his  blow. 

He  overran  his  royal  kinsman's  land, 

Until  his  coward  forces  made  a  stand 

For  very  shame,  within  an  old,  walled  town 

Famous  for  strength.     Here  Felix  sat  him  down 

For  a  long  siege,  as  was  the  custom  then. 

The  country  round  about  swarmed  with  his  men, 

Felling  old  forests,  filling  swampy  grounds. 

Digging  great  trenches,   throwing  up  huge  mounds, 

Drawing  their  circles  closer  day  by  day 

Around  the  foe  who  kept  them  still  at  bay, 

Safe  in  his  stronghold.     Nor  less  busy  he. 

Thinning  their  ranks  with  his  dread  enginery 

That  thundered  all  day  long  :  and  oft  at  night 

He  sallied  from  his  gates  in  desperate  fight. 

That  smote  the  darkness  with  a  burst  of  flame, 

That  died  in  rolling  drums  as  sudden  as  it  came. 

Their  girding  cannon  batter  at  the  walls. 

That  slowly  crumble  ;  now  a  bastion  falls, 

Anon  a  turret ;  still  the  foe  defies. 

Though  low  in  dust  his  bravest  captain  lies. 

Hour  after  hour  the  bloody  work  goes  on. 

Another  day — the  fated  town  is  won. 

Ikit  see,  the  gates  are  opened!     Who  are  these? 

The  oldest  burghers  bringing  out  the  keys. 

"  We  would  not  yield,"  they  say,  "  till  we  were  dead. 

Did  not  our  wives  and  children  starve  for  bread  : 

We  yield  to  Famine,  Felix,  not  to  thee." 

"  Your  children  and  your  wives  are  safe  with  me, 

I  only  war  with  men.      Take  back  your  keys. 

Bread,  also."     Amazed,  they  fell  upon  their  knees. 

His  soldiers  shouted  as  the  tidings  flew, 


1 82  THE   king's   bell. 

They  heard  it  on  the  walls,  and  shouted,  too  : 

Trumpets  were  blown,  and  bells  began  to  ring. 

"  Long  live  the  King!     Long  live  the  happy  King! 

His  clemency  and  the  prowess  of  his  arms 
Distracted  the  old   King  with  fresh  alarms  ; 
Repulse  he  might  have  schooled  himself  to  meet. 
But  not  defeat,  such  merciful  defeat. 
"  What  shall  be  done  with  one  who  can  subdue 
Not  only  us,  my  lords,  but  himself,  too  ? 
Advise  me."     And  they  did.     "  We  must  pretend 
His  mercy  is  a  cloak  to  some  dark  end, 
(Say  your  dethronement.  Sire,)  as  time  will  show." 
So  they  conspired  against  their  generous  foe. 
The  silly  people  (were  they  e\er  wise?) 
Of  course  believed  them,  for  a  monarch's  lies 
Pass  current,  like  his  coin,  from  hand  to  hand, 
However  base  the  metal.     The  whole  land 
Bankrupt  awhile  through  fear,  but  affluent  now 
With  spurious  courage,  raised  they  knew  not  how, 
Rose  to  defend, — each  man  declared,  his  hearth, 
And  sweep  the  tyrant  Felix  from  the  earth. 
The  good  King  Felix  heard  the  wicked  cry 
With  noble  anger,  dying  in  a  sigh. 
"  Since  they  belie  us  so  there  is  no  way 
To  bring  them  to  their  senses,  but  to  slay. 
They  must  be  taught  to  fear,  as  well  as  hate  ; 
Who  speaks  of  pity  now,  he  speaks  too  late. 
What  says  the  stern  commandment  of  the  Lord  ? 
'  Who  take  the  sword  shall  perish  by  the  sword.'  " 

At  last  it  came,  the  dark,   the  fatal  day. 
When,  face  to  face,  in  battle's  dread  array, 
For  the  first  time  the  hostile  armies  stood. 
The  low  and  sullen  East  was  red  as  blood 


THE   king's   bell.  1 83 

Behind  the  ghostly  tents  ot  the  old   King, 

O'er  which  a  raven  flapped  its  funeral  wing, 

Affrightened  by  strange  thunders  from  below, 

And  puffs  of  driven  cloud,  up-mounting  slow. 

For  now  the  glimmering  field  was  rolled  in  smoke, 

And  heavily  the  boom  of  cannon  broke. 

Shattering  the  startled  air,  shaking  the  ground, 

Pouring,  whole  parks  at  once,  destruction  round. 

Then  came  the  sharp  fire  of  the  musketeers, 

And  flights  of  arrows,  and  the  thrust  of  spears  ; 

Steel  rang  on  steel,  drums  beat,  the  trumpet's  blare, 

Ominous,  threatening,  smote  the  trembling  air. 

At  first  they  fought  by  rule,  the  wings,  the  van, 

As  had  been  planned  and  ordered,  every  man 

A  tutored  puppet  in  his  captain's  hand, 

And  all  obedient  to  their  King's  command. 

Did  Felix  say,  or  sign,  "  Go  there,"  'twas  done, 

A  thousand  men  marched  to  the  spot  as  one. 

Where  they  should  stand  they  stand,  firm  as  a  wall, 

Closing  their  shattered  ranks  fast  as  they  fall ; 

Where  they  should  move  they  move  :    the  cannon  roar. 

Ploughing  them  down,  the  spears  grow  more  and  more, 

Bristling  before  them,  clouds  of  arrows  fly. 

Darkening  what  little  day  is  in  the  sky  : 

In  vain,  they  still  encroach  upon  their  foes. 

So  for  awhile  the  tide  of  battle  flows. 

But  by  and  by  it  takes  a  wider  sweep, 

Rolling  its  waves  towards  the  eastern  steep, 

A  raging  sea,  that  swayed,  and  surged,  and  reeled, 

Bursting  tumultuous  over  the  whole  field. 

Ere  long  the  struggling  hosts,  on  carnage  bent, 

So  broken  were,  in  such  disorder  blent, 

That  neither  King  could  say,  "  These  are  my  own," 

Or  whether  he  were  victorious,  or  o'erthrown. 

Against  the  cannon  archers  twanged  their  bows. 


1 84  THE  king's  bell. 

Where  blows  were  thickest  standards  sank  and  rose, 

White  crests  were  lost  like  foam-flecks  in  the  sea, 

And  here  and  there  were  bands  of  cavalry, 

Whose  dreadful,  flashing  swords  were  dripping  red. 

Galloping  o'er  the  dying  and  the  dead  ! 

'Twas  chaos  all.     At  noon  there  came  in  sight, 

Swift-marching  from  the  west,  fresh,  full  of  fight, 

A  second  host  which  Felix  had  concealed. 

To  turn  the  doubtful  fortunes  of  the  field, 

Rushing  with  glittering  weapons,  and  a  shout. 

Which  heard  a  league  off  put  the  foe  to  rout. 

For  as  the  red  leaves,  in  an  autumn  gust, 

Whirl  round  the  self-same  spot,  in  clouds  of  dust. 

Till  sweeping  all  before  it  like  the  sea. 

Comes  the  north  wind,  when  suddenly  they  flee  ; 

So,  panic-struck,  the  old   King's  forces  fled, 

A  coward  mob,  to  honor,  manhood — dead  ! 

In  vain  their  captains  strove  to  check  their  flight, 

They  turned  on  them  the  fury  of  the  fight. 

And  cut  them  down — each  man  in  that  wild  strife 

Braving  a  thousand  deaths  to  save  his  worthless  life  ! 

When  Felix  saw  the  field  was  won,  his  heart. 

Glorying  a  moment,  took  the  old  King's  part 

For  sheerest  pity.     "  Death  to  him,"  he  said, 

"  Who  dares  to  hurt  a  hair  of  his  gray  head  !  " 

Then  spurring  his  white  steed  away  he  went, 

The  first  to  find  and  save  him.      In  his  tent. 

Girt  by  the  few  that  scorned  to  fly,  he  lay. 

Bathed  in  his  blood  that  swiftly  ebbed  away. 

His  son.  Prince  Irac,  stooping  at  his  side. 

"  Felix!"  as  he  drew  near,  the  old  man  cried. 

Prince   Irac  started  up,  and  snatched  a  spear — 

Rage  in  his  eyes  and  soul.     "  Rash  boy,  come  here," 

His  father  groaned.     "You  dare  to  disobey? 

Sir,   I   command  you."     Felix  turned  away. 


THE   KfXG'S   BELL.  I  85 

His  sweet  thoughts  changed  to  gall.     "  Like  sire,  like  son, 

They  hate  me — the  whole  race.     There  was  but  one 

Who  knew  me  as  I  am,  and  she  is  dead." 

"  Felix!   Go,  call  him  back,"   (he  raised  his  head, 

The   King  still  regnant  in  his  fading  eye,) 

"  For  I  must  speak  with  him  before  I  die. 

Felix,   1   know  thee  now,  and  long  have  known, 

True  man  and  good,  too  good  to  fill  a  throne, 

Above  the  petty  lust  of  Power,  which  brings 

Such  wo  to  nations,  and  such  death  to  Kings. 

For  this  bad  war,   O,  let  it  end  to-day  ! 

Not  thine,  but  mine,  the  sin  is  miine,   I  say. 

Irac,  I  made  this  war  for  selfish  ends, 

They  fail,  death  comes — be  you  and  Felix  friends." 

He  clasped  their  liands  in  his,  as  they  drew  nigh 

To  catch  his  faltering  words,  and  see  him  die. 

And  while  they  knelt  he  bade  them  swear  to  be 

"  Brothers  in  heart,  and  live  in  amity. 

They  and  their  people  " — Here  his  spirit  fled. 

For  when  they  looked  again  the  poor  old  King  was  dead  ! 

When,  treaties  signed  with   Irac,   Felix  came 
Back  to  his  kingdom,  with  a  conqueror's  fame, 
Each  man  rejoiced,  his  cup  filled  to  the  brim, 
As  if  some  special  good  had  fallen  to  him  ; 
The  women  laughed,  the  children  clapped  their  hands. 
It  was  a  holiday  throughout  the  lands. 
Triumphal  arches,  banners,  music's  swell, 
And  all  the  bells  were  rung — except  the  happy  bell  ! 

The  happy  bell— what  tales  it  could  have  told 
Of  what  it  saw  below  its  house  of  gold. 
Since  first,  in  youth.  Prince  Felix  hung  it  there 
Above  his  palace  towers  in  the  wide  air. 
Beneath  it  and  around,  a  league  each  way, 


l86  THE   king's   bell. 

Mapped  out  in  small  the  mighty  city  lay, 
A  stretch  of  roofs,  with  slips  of  street  between, 
Glimpses  of  trees,  and  summer  squares  of  green, 
Cool,  bosky  places,  sacred  to  repose, 
Wherein,  like  shafts  of  silver,  fountains  rose. 
And  here  and  there  a  golden  gleam  of  fire 
Betrayed  the  cross  on  some  Cathedral  spire  ; 
And  bells  were  round,  in  tower  and  turret  hung, 
Great,  brazen  bells,  whose  ponderous  iron  tongue 
Proclaimed  the  flying  hours,  by  day  and  night, 
The  honeyed  joys  that  wait  the  marriage  rite, 
(Ah,  dreams  of  youth  and  love  too  early  fled  !) 
And  man's  unspeakable  sorrow  for  his  Dead  ! 
Year  in  and  out  the  changeful  sea  of  sound, 
Fed  from  below,  kept  flowing,  circling  round  ; 
Freighted  with  human  life  it  rose  and  fell. 
But  drew  no  answer  from  the  royal  bell. 

When  first  'twas  hung  there  in  its  airy  hall 
The  park  below,  new-planted,  was  so  small 
Its  trees,  from  that  far  height,  were  shadowy  stalks 
Drawn  on  the  emerald  grass  and  gravelled  walks. 
But  by  and  by  they  grow  more  tall  and  dark, 
The  glossy  rind  becomes  a  wrinkled  bark, 
Tangled  the  boughs,  and  thicker  the  green  leaves, 
Through  which  the  sun  glints,  and  the  soft  wind  grieves, 
And  birds  are  glancing.     Soon  the  shady  places 
Are  lighted  by  bright  eyes  and  laughmg  faces, 
And  knots  of  beauteous  dames,  in  merry  talk. 
Go  sauntering,  arm  in  arm,  from  walk  to  walk, 
With  fluttering  scarfs,  rich  robes,  and  jewelled  sheen, 
Brilliant  as  tropic  flowers  !     Then  comes  the  Queen, 
Chaste  as  her  bridal  lily,  and  as  pale, 
A  nun  who  wears  a  crown  instead  of  veil. 


THE   king's   bell.  1 8/ 

It  hears  her  marriage  peal,  her  funeral  knell, 
But  never  rings  itself — that  silent  bell ! 

Years  pass  without  a  sound  from  that  high  tower. 
The  bell  hangs  dumb,  like  some  great  drooping  flower, 
That  never  knows  the  bloom  and  blight  below, 
Now  bright  with  sunshine,  and  now  white  with  snow. 
At  last  the  snow  and  sun  and  the  wild  rains 
Clouded  its  burnished  sides  with  darkening  stains, 
And  muffled  thick  with  dust  its  iron  tongue, 
And  birds  built  there,  and  reared  their  clamorous  young. 

What,  good  King  Felix  and  his  life  had  been 
Through  all  these  silent  changes,  we  have  seen. 
Not  much,  perhaps,  but  still  enough  to  see 
He  always  missed  his  wished  felicity. 
/It-  might  have  found,  or  made,  a  happier  lot, 
Born  to  the  throne  he  filled,  but  he  could  not. 
Ah,  more's  the  pity,  since  his  youth  was  past, 
And  manhood — age  came  stealing  on  at  last. 
First  in  a  few  gray  hairs,  a  gleam  of  white, 
That  made  his  brown  locks  richer  in  the  light ; 
Against  the  corners  of  his  eyes  a  line 
That  could  not  be  a  wrinkle  'twas  so  fine  ; 
A  step  that  lost  a  little  of  its  spring. 
Measured,  deliberate,  as  became  a  King. 
These  shadows,  say,  of  change,  before  his  prime, 
Ere  one  could  think  it  was  the  work  of  Time. 
For  still  his  eyes  were  keen,  his  cheeks  were  red. 
No  leaf  yet  of  their  princely  roses  shed. 
As  year  by  year  went  by  with  all  its  care. 
Thinner  and  whiter  grew  his  wintry  hair. 
And  Time,  or  Sorrow  holding  his  old  plough, 
Did  turn  great  furrows  in  his  faded  brow. 
His  stooping  shoulders  and  his  tottering  gait, 


1 88  THE   KINGS   BELL. 

His  head  that  seemed  to  droop  with  its  own  weight, 
Dim  eyes,  and  trembhng  hands,  so  icy  cold, 
All  these  declared  that  he  was  growing  old. 

Such  was  the  hapless  King  in  his  decay, 
Suffering  and  silent,  till  one  summer's  day. 
When  weary  of  his  cares  he  stole  apart, 
And  paced  his  chamber  with  an  aching  heart. 
Backward  and  forward  with  a  listless  tread, 
With  many  a  sudden  stop,  and  shake  o'th'  head, 
He  paced  the  lonely  chamber,  so  forlorn 
He  wished  that  he  were  dead,  or  never  had  been  born. 
The  darkest  corner  seemed  to  suit  his  gloom, 
No  fitter  nook  for  sorrow,  save  the  tomb  ; 
Then  he  affected  brightness,  just  to  see 
His  shadow  creep  beside  him  wearily  : 
Anon  he  halted  in  his  shifting  mood. 
Where  some  fresh  landscape  hung,  or  statue  stood, 
Taking  their  beauty  in  with  vacant  eyes. 
Lost  to  the  fairest  shapes,   the  brightest  skies. 
His  windows  opened  on  a  balcony. 
Whence,  under  silken  awnings,  he  could  see 
His  slope  of  lawns,  his  gardens,  and  between 
The  winding,  wooded  walks,  cool  avenues  of  green. 
He  threw  a  casement  up  in  his  despair. 
To  watch  the  clouds,  perchance,  or  feel  the  air. 
Which  blowing  freshly  o'er  his  royal  grounds 
Came  freighted  with  fine  odors,  and  sweet  sounds, 
The  breath  of  flowers  and  dew,  the  song  of  birds, 
The  low  (or  did  he  dream  ?)  of  distant  herds. 
Shouts  near  at  hand,  (it  was  a  holiday, 
And  the  whole  city  was  alive  and  gay,) 
"  Long  live  the  happy  King!"     He  bowed  his  head, 
"The  happy   King,   O  mockery!"  he  said. 
"  What  is  this  thing  called  Happiness?     And  where 


Till-:  king's  bell.  189 

Docs  it  abide,  and  wlio  shall  guide  me  there  ? 
My  feet  have  never  struck  the  path  thereto, 
My  groping  hands  liave  never  found  the  clue, 
Or,  finding,  straight  have  lost  it.     Who  can  tell 
Why  I  have  never  rung  my  golden  bell? 
Perhaps  I  asked,  in  youth,  what  could  not  be, 
A  bliss  too  great  for  man,  at  least  for  me, 
Raptures,  for  which  all  language  would  be  weak, 
Striking  a  sudden  color  to  the  cheek, 
A  swelling  of  the  heart  not  felt  before. 
Like  the  sea's  setting  to  a  summer  shore, 
A  dance  o'th'  pulse,  a  brightening  o'th'  eye, 
A  light  like  endless  morning  in  the  sky. 
Something  which  should  compel  me  to  confess 
What  I  am  dying  to — This,  this  is  Happiness! 
It  may  be  so  :  youth  is  not  over  wise, 
Nor  Kings  content  with  common  destinies. 
There  lies,  methinks,  the  secret,  everything 
Summed  up  at  last  in  that  one  word — a  King ! 

O  wretched  state  of  Kings  !     O  doleful  fate  ! 
Greatness  misnamed,  in  misery  only  great! 
Could  men  but  know  the  endless  wo  it  brings. 
The  wise  would  die  before  they  would  be  Kings. 
Think  what  a  King  must  do  !     It  tasks  the  best 
To  rule  the  little  world  within  his  breast, 
Yet  must  he  rule  it,  and  the  world  beside. 
Or  King  is  none,  undone  by  power  and  pride. 
Think  what  a  King  must  be  !  What  burdens  bear 
From  birth  to  death!     His  life  is  one  long  care. 
It  wears  away  in  tasks  that  never  end  : 
He  has  ten  thousand  foes,  but  not  one  friend. 
Not  for  himself  he  lives,  but  for  the  State, 
To  make  his  thankless  people  good  and  great, 
The  head  that  guides  their  hands — to  pljugh  to-day, 


igo  THE  king's  bell. 

To-morrow  to  grasp  the  dreadful  sword  and  slay  : 

What's  good  in  them  must  foster,  check  what's  ill, 

And  save  them  from  themselves  against  their  will, 

Do  many  things  they  cannot  understand. 

And  rule,  when  need  is,  with  an  iron  hand, 

Look  for  revolt  at  home,  and  war  abroad. 

Prepared  to  strike  at  both,  and  strike  like  God. 

O  doleful  state  of  Kings  !     O  dreadful  fate ! 

O  hell  in  which  we  wake,  like  damned  souls  — too  late! 

Would  1  could  doff  my  royal  robes,  and  be 
One  of  the  people  who  are  ruled  by  me. 
Long  leagues  away  from  this  great  city's  roar, 
No  matter  who,  so  I  were  King  no  more. 
I'd  rise  when  dawn  was  glimmering  in  the  blue, 
And  drive  my  flocks  a-field  through  mist  and  dew, 
Stopping  to  bind  my  crook  with  nameless  flowers. 
Or  harken  to  the  birds  in  neighboring  bowers. 
Watching  the  snowy  lambs  that  round  me  feed, 
On  some  low  knoll  I  touch  my  rustic  reed, 
Or  sing  old  ditties  with  a  quaint  refrain. 
How  Corydon  did   Phyllis  love  in  vain. 
Till  Cupid,  smit  with  ruth,  becomes  his  friend, 
Bringing  his  troubles  to  a  blissful  end. 
My  Phyllis  sits  with  me,  a  blushing  lass. 
Plucking  with  down-cast  eyes  the  blades  of  grass, 
Listening  the  tale  I  whisper  in  her  ear, 
How  dear  she  is  to  me — and  am   1  dear  ? 
Nor  does  she  fear  my  arm  around  her  waist. 
Nor  start  when  kissed,  nor  shrink  to  be  embraced. 
Ye  know  not,   O  my  people,  cannot  guess 
How  much  I   envy  you  your  happiness. 
Your  calm,   contented  days,  your  dreamless  nights. 
Your  power  to  make  life's  little  things  delights. 


THE    king's    bell.  I9I 

Your  wakes,  your  festivals,  your  antique  play, 

The  dance  upon  the  green  around  the  Ou^'en  of  May ! 

1   saw  to-day  a  father  at  his  door, 
A  simple  clown,   the  poorest  of  the  poor  : 
He  stared  upon  me  as  I  hurried  by. 
And   I  stared  back  at  him  with  wistful  eye. 
Ah,  why  should  I  not  sit  like  him,   and  see 
My  chubby  children  clamber  up  my  knee? 
No  more  a  child,  my  boy  a  man  has  grown, 
And  soon  will  follow  me  upon  the  throne. 
What  I  could  do  to  make  him  good  and  wise, 
Fit  to  shape  out  his  people's  destinies, 
I've  done  ;    he's  generous,  has  a  loving  heart, 
A  scorn  of  low  intrigue,  the  courtier's  art ; 
Commands  his  passions  better  than  his  Sire  ; 
Not  quick  to  take  offence,  though  full  of  tire  ; 
ICxpert  in  arms  and  fearless  in  the  fray, 
( 1  know  he'll  win  the  jousting  prize  to-day  :) 
Indeed,  a  noble  Prince,  who'll  not  disgrace 
The  kingly  glories  of  his  name  and  race. 
This  he  is  now,  but  who,  alas,  can  say 
What  he  may  be  when  I  have  passed  away. 
As  soon  I  must,  his  tutor,  and  his  friend  ? 
Woe's  me,  my  son,  I  cannot  see  the  end. 
Knowing  my  own  life,  I  am  full  of  fears, 
Nor  can  I  help,  to-day,  at  least,  my  tears, 
Breathing  in  prayer  my  last,  my  sole  desire — 
May  you  be  happier  than  your  hapless  Sire  ! 

Happy,  alas,  who's  happy  here  on  earth  ? 
Why,  man  is  wretched  from  his  very  birth. 
Frail  as  a  flower's  his  hold  of  life,  none  know 
Whether  the  human  bud  will  fade  or  blow  ; 
For  hours  on  hours  his  lids  arc  sealed  in  sleep, 


192  THE   king's   bell. 

And  when  at  last  he  wakes — it  is  to  weep. 

And  now  begins  his  endless  quest  of  joy. 

At  first  he  finds  it  in  the  simplest  toy, 

His  rattle,  bells,  a  string  of  tangled  beads, 

The  beetle  in  the  grass,  a  knot  of  weeds. 

The  letters  in  old  books  begirt  with  gold, 

In  everything  that  he  can  snatch  and  hold  : 

Yet  brief  as  bold  his  sallies  of  delight, 

For  even  when  he  laughs  he  weeps  outright. 

Youth  comes,  and  then  as  childhood  went  before, 

Why,  so  youth  goes  in  turn,  to  come  no  more  ; 

Its  little  blisses  never  known,  and  prized, 

Or  only  known  amiss — to  be  despised. 

But  wiser  manhood  soon  will  make  amends, 

Has  riper  purposes  and  richer  ends  ; 

We  shall  be  fortunate  and  happy  then, 

Be  all  we  would  as  soon  as  we  are  men. 

One,  seeking  pleasure,  to  the  wine-cup  flies, 

Another  drinks  his  bane  from  woman's  eyes, 

A  third  hoards  gold,  a  fourth  is  mad  for  fame, 

All  aiming  at  one  thing,  whate'er  their  aim, 

All  mocked  and  baffled  by  it,  (me,  no  less, 

Me,  most  of  all  !)   the  phantom — Happiness  ! 

At  last  old  age  ;    gray  hairs,  a  wrinkled  brow, 
The  wreck  of  what  he  was — what  I  am  now. 
Then  the  last  sickness,  and  the  hour  of  death, 
The  slowly-glazing  eye,  the  fluttering  breath, 
The  swoon   in  which  the  senses  slip  away, 
No  pulse,  heart  stopped — a  lifeless  lump  of  clay 
That  stirs  no  more,  the  feet  that  ran  to  ill 
Still,  and  the  busy,  guilty  hands, — all  still. 
Dead-cold  from  head  to  foot,  a  frozen  form. 
Twin  of  corruption,  brother  of  the  worm, 
Dust,  ashes, —  nothing!     Happy  with  all  this? 


THE   KING'S   BELL.  193 

Let  me  behold  the  wretched  man  who  is. 
There's  no  such  man,  he  must  be  more,  or  less ; 
There's  no  such  thing  as  Death  and  Happiness  !  " 

So  said,  or  thought,  that  day  the  poor  old  King, 
Sick  of  himself,  and  life,  and  everything, 
Crushed  by  the  secret  that  he  seemed  to  know, 
The  solemn  mystery  of  human  wo. 
Tortured  in  heart  and  brain  he  totters  back, 
Like  one  just  lifted  broken  from  the  rack. 
And  falling  on  a  couch  which  near  him  stands, 
Buries  his  face  forlornly  in  his  hands  ; 
Then  closing  his  dim  eyes  that  would  not  weep, 
Drops  in  a  moment  into  happy  sleep, 
So  deep  it  looks  like  death.     They  find  him  there. 
The  night-wind  blowing  in  his  snowy  hair. 

'Twas  known  next  morning  that  the  King  was  ill. 
The  people  caught  the  whisper  as  they  will, 
But  caring  little  for  the  affairs  of  Kings, 
Soon  went  their  ways,  and  thought  of  other  things. 
In  his  still  chamber,  darkened  from  the  day. 
Low  in  his  bed  of  state  the  sick  man  lay ; 
A  grave  physician  stood  beside  his  bed, 
(He  who  first  told  him  that  the  Queen  was  dead. 
The  Prince  was  born,)  the  Prince,  too,  pale,  distressed, 
But  hoping,  as  youth  always  does,  the  best. 
"  You  took  the  prize,   I  hear."     His  father  spoke. 
"  Yes,  Sire,  but  rather  by  a  lucky  stroke 
Than  any  skill  or  prowess  of  my  own." 
"  You'll  have  another  soon — I  mean  the  throne." 
"  May  Heaven  preserve  you  long!  "     He  quickly  chid 
The  foolish,  loving  prayer  :  "  May  Heaven  forbid!" 

Next  day  "  The  King  is  worse,"  the  rumor  ran. 
And  now  it  touched  the  people,  who  began 


194  THE   king's   bell. 

'To  ask  his  ailment.     Would  he  soon  be  well  ? 
What  did  the  doctor  think  ?     But  none  could  tell. 
He  knew  not  what  to  think,  with  all  his  skill 
He  only  knew  with  them — the  King  was  ill. 
The  third  day's  rumor  was  "  The  King  will  die." 
It  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  with  many  a  sigh ; 
Each  had  some  tale  to  tell,  some  proof  to  bring, 
How  happy  all  had  been  since  he  was  King. 
"  Do  you  remember  now  seven  years  ago, 
The  famine-winter  when  we  suffered  so. 
He  melted  up  his  plate  to  buy  us  bread, 
And  sold  the  golden  crown  from  off  his  head 
To  keep  life  in  us,  who  must  else  have  died  ?  " 
"God  bless  him,  yes!"  his  earnest  listener  cried. 
"  And,  later,  when  the  Pestilence  was  here, 
(I  never  shall  forget  that  fatal  year, 
My  wife  died  then,  God  rest  her  soul  above  !) 
There  never  was  such  courage,  so  much  love 
As  his  for  us,  his  people,  when  we  lay 
Crowding  with  deaths  each  minute  of  the  day. 
Fear  made  all  selfish,  flying  for  their  lives. 
Wives  from  their  husbands,  husbands  from  their  wives, 
The  mother  from  her  child,  despite  its  moan  ; 
The  dying  and  the  dead  were  left  alone. 
But  he — was  ever  such  a  King  before  ? 
He  went  from  street  to  street,  from  door  to  door, 
Physician,  nurse,  and  friend  ;  no  wretched  den 
Passed  by,  nor  shrunk  from  the  most  desperate  men, 
Moistened  their  lips  with  water,  brought  them  wine, 
And  talked — the  Bishop  never  talked  so  fine 
In  his  long  robe  at  Easter,  when  he  stands 
Blessing  the  world  with  much-bejeweled  hands. 
Don't  tell  me,  sirs, — he  is  the  best  of  Kings." 
From  this  the  gossip  passed  to  other  things. 
One  of  the  youth  of  Felix  strove  to  tell. 


THE   king's   bell.  I95 

Another  babbled  of  his  famous  bell, 

(All  knew,  alas,  that  folly  of  their  King,) 

How  strange  it  was  they  never  heard  it  ring, 

Not  even  when  the  victory  was  won, 

Nor  on  his  marriage,  no,  nor  birthday  of  his  son. 

And  now  their  thoughts  the  Prince  and  Queen  divide, 

How  fair  and  good  she  was,  how  young  she  died. 

How  valiant  he,  no  knight  could  ride  him  down. 

So  handsome,  too,  his  golden  hair  his  crown. 

"  What  better  King  than  he  can  we  desire  ? 

May  he  be  happy,  happy  as  his  Sire  ! " 

Felix  meanwhile  was  dying.     Day  by  day 
His  strength,  his  life  had  slowly  ebbed  away, 
No  wave  returning  from  the  shoreless  sea 
To  which  his  soul  was  drifting  wearily. 
Pale,  pale  his  sunken  cheek,  and  sharp  his  chin, 
His  long,  thin  hands  so  white,  more  long  and  thin, 
(Like  knotted  cords  their  large,  blue  arteries  rise,) 
And  what  great  orbs  are  in  his  pits  of  eyes, 
Draped  in  the  wrinkled  lids  whose  fringes  meet, 
As  dreadful  as  the  dead  beneath  the  winding  sheet. 
Ah  yes,  and  when  at  last  the  lids  are  stirred, 
Lifting  at  some  soft  step,  or  loving  word, 
(Say,  when  the    Prince  is  by,)  more  dreadful  yet, 
Filled  with  such  solemn  light,  such  strange  regret. 
Unearthly,  wild — as  if  the  dead  arose. 
And  stared  about  them  in  their  burial  clothes. 
For  hours  he  spoke  not,  moved  not,  shunning  all, 
He  turned  his  face  in  sorrow  to  the  wall. 
And,  lost  in  shadow,  slept,  or  seemed  to  sleep : 
He  murmured  "Agnes"  once,  and  woke  to  weep. 
Then,  rest  denied,  he  tried  to  dream  of  rest, 
Stretched  on  his  back,  his  hands  across  his  breast 
Clasped  as  in  prayer,  his  upward-pointing  feet 


196  THE   king's   bell. 

Drawing  in  long,  white  folds  the  marble  sheet ; 

Pale,  cold,  dumb,  dead — as  awful  in  the  gloom 

As  if  he  had  become  the  statue  on  his  tomb. 

Vainly  his  books  the  sage  physician  read, 

Not  written  for  the  living,  but  the  dead, 

The  dreams  of  ancient  fools  reputed  wise, 

That  nor  diseases  knew,  nor  remedies. 

"  Give  over,  sir,"  the  sick  man  said  at  last. 

"  The  hour  when  drugs  would  do  me  good  is  past. 

You  know  not  my  disease,  and  yet  'tis  rife." 

To  which  the  leech:  **  What  is  it,  Sire?"     " 'Tis  Life." 

"  There  is  no  cure  for  that."     "  There  is  but  one." 

"  Dear  Father,  say  not  so,"  exclaimed  his  son. 

His  sorrow  fainting  in  a  storm  of  sighs, 

The  wild  tears  raining  from  his  clouded  eyes. 

"  There's  nothing,  boy,  to  weep  for,  if  there  be, 

'Tis  Life,  not  Death  ;  weep  for  yourself,  not  me. 

That  I  must  die  is  but  a  little  thing. 

Not  so  that  you  must  live — and  be  a  King !  " 

Here  some  one  entered  with  a  smirking  face. 

To  say  the  Bishop  waited.     "Tell  his  Grace, 

With  all  the  reverence  that  befits  his  state. 

The  great,  good  man, — he  comes  too  soon,  or  late. 

Too  soon  to  bury  me,  too  late  to  save  : 

But  bid  him  come  to-morrow — to  my  grave. 

Enough  of  him.     Who'll  lift  me  up  in  bed  ? 

I'm  troublesome,  I  know."     He  raised  his  head — 

The  weeping  Prince — with  more  than  woman's  care, 

Kissing  with  loving  lips  his  silver  hair. 

And  there  he  sat,  a  piteous  sight  to  see, 

Propped  up  beneath  his  gilded  canopy 

Whose  purple  shadow  o'er  his  features  fell, 

And  near  him  hung  the  cord  to  ring  the  happy  bell ! 

"  Look  up,  my  son,"  the  dying  King  began  : 

"  Weep  not,  but  take  what's  coming  like  a  man. 


THE   king's   bell.  1 97 

/  do,  and  have  ;  you  do  not  hear  me  sigh, 
I  know  too  much  of  life  to  fear  to  die, 
Enough  to  say  some  bitter  things — all  true  : 
But  wherefore  should  I  say  them,  and  to  you  ? 
You  could  not  look  at  life  through  my  old  eyes, 
Nor  would  my  early  follies  make  you  wise. 
Youth  will  be  youth,  however  age  may  prate  ; 
'Twill  learn  like  age,  perchance,  but  learn  too  late. 
Besides,  I  love  you  so  I  can  not  bear 
To  darken  your  young  days  with  future  care. 
No,  keep  the  dew,  the  freshness  of  your  heart. 
As  something  precious,  which  must  soon  depart. 
Be  happy,  if  you  are  so,  while  you  may: 
For  me,  I  have  not  seen  one  happy  day. 
Start  not,  nor  ask  the  solemn  reasons  why — 
Time  flies  too  fast— you'll  know  them  by  and  by. 
You'll  wear  my  crown  to-morrow — Take  it  now, 
O,  may  it  sit  less  heavy  on  your  brow 
Than  mine  !    (See,  feel  how  thin  my  hair  is  worn,) 
Why  every  jewel  in  it  is  a  thorn  ! 
Remember  what  I've  taught  in  my  poor  way — 
(Would  I  had  strength,  I  have  so  much  to  say !) 
The  office  of  a  King — what  he  must  be — 
How  good  and  wise  a  man,  how — unlike  me!" 
"Dear  Father!"  cried  the  Prince,  up-looking  then 
With  reverent  eyes,  "you  are  the  best  of  men. 
May  I  be  half  so  good !  "     "  Be  better,  sir. 
Follow — but  hark,  what's  that?     I  hear  a  stir, 
A  sound  like  summer  rain  of  many  feet, 
And  the  low  hum  of  voices  in  the  street." 
"It  is  your  people.  Sire,  who  gather  there, 
(Throw  up  the  casement,  you,  and  give  him  air,) 
Knowing  how  ill  you — were,  (the  news  would  fly,) 
To  show  their  love,  they  say,  before  you  die." 
"My  people  love  me,  then?"     "Ah  Father,  yes." 


198  THE   king's   bell. 

"  Well,  that  is  something, — if  not  Happiness." 

He  closed  his  eyes  a  moment,  bowed  his  head, 

And  moved  his  silent  lips  ;  at  last  he  said  : 

"  Sit  by  my  side — just  there,  and  now  your  hand. 

When  one  is  going  to  a  distant  land, 

As  I  am  now,  he  loves  to  have  a  friend, 

A  son,  say,  as  he  starts,  to  cheer  him  to  the  end. 

Speak  kindly  of  me  after  I  am  gone, 

And  see  my  name  be  graven  on  the  stone, 

'  Infelix,'  mind,  not  '  Felix  '—that  would  be 

A  cruel,  lying  epitaph  for  me. 

And  yet  I  know  not,  for  methinks  I  seem 

Slowly  awaking  from  the  strangest  dream  ; 

The  mystery  of  my  life  is  growing  clear. 

Something — it  may  be  Happiness — is  near. 

I  hear  such  heavenly  music !     Did  you  speak  ? 

Who's  shining  yonder  ?     Look  !  "     His  voice  grew  weak. 

Died  to  a  whisper,  while  his  swimming  sight 

Strained  through  the  darkness  to  a  shape  of  light, 

Floating  across  the  chamber  to  his  bed. 

^^  Agnes!"  He  clutched  the  cord,  and  fell  back — dead. 

Striking  in  death  the  first  stroke  of  his  knell. 

Thus  Felix  rang  at  last  the  Happy  Bell. 


THE   BOOK    OF  THE    EAST. 


PERSIAN   SONGS. 

Sweet  are  the  garden  spaces, 
Lighted  with  happy  faces  : 
Long  may  their  faces  shine, 
The  merry  drinkers  of  wine. 

The  wind  of  the  morning  blows 
Out  of  the  heart  of  the  rose  : 
My  heart,  or  the  rose  at  my  feet. 
Which  is  the  sweetest.  Sweet  ? 

But  the  rose  will  soon  depart, 
And  leave  its  thorns  in  my  heart ; 
Then  I  shall  sigh,  and  wail, 
And  bleed,  like  the  nightingale. 

O  nightingale,  come  with  the  dews, 
Thy  coming  will  be  good  news ; 
For  lovers  that  cannot  sleep 
Listen  to  thee,  and  weep  ! 


The  heart  where  love  and  patience  dwell, 

(But  such  there  cannot  be,) 
I  hold  it  not  a  heart,  but  stone, 

It  will  not  do  for  me. 


202         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Ah,  no,  a  thousand  pharsangs  part 
The  loving  and  the  patient  heart. 

What  discipHne  shall  I  adopt 
To  ease  this  woe  of  mine  ? 

I  harken  to  the  harp  in  vain, 
And  drain  the  cups  of  wine  ; 

I  love,  but  cannot  patient  be. 

Nor  can  the  patient  love  like  me. 


Not  wholly,  poet,  from  the  eyes 

Doth  love  arise  : 
For  words  create,  though  ne'er  express, 

This  happiness. 
Once  at  the  portal  of  the  ear. 

Let  love  appear. 
There  is  no  rest  for  heart,  or  brain, 

Till  loved  again. 
No  need  of  sight,  enough  for  me 

To  hear,  not  see. 
The  god  I  serve  is  painted  blind, 
To  show  his  eyes  are  in  his  mind. 


My  little  soul,  my  lover, 
He  does  not  hear  me  sigh  : 

Tell  me  the  street  he  lives  in, 
At  once  to  him  I'll  fly. 

If  I  can  only  find  him. 

He's  sure  to  hear  my  prayer 
Tell  me  the  street  you  live  in, 

O  Mirza,  tell  me  where. 


PERSIAN  SONGS.  203 

Give  me  a  cup  of  wine,  dear, 

And  listen  to  my  plea  ; 
Say,  when  you  love  another, 

You  want  no  more  of  me  ! 


Two  strings  for  my  guitar 
I  will  spin  from  your  hair ; 

What  else  can  you  expect 
From  a  lover  in  despair  ? 

You  grant  a  "  Yes  "  to  all. 

But  the    man  that    is  your   own  ; 

When  I  ask  for  a  kiss. 
It  is  "  No  "  to  me  alone. 

Were  I  marble  I  would  be 

A  floor  where  you  might  walk, 

As  stately  as  a  cypress. 
With  an  eye  like  a  hawk. 

Yqu  said  that  you  would  come, 
Where  is  your  promise,  dear? 

For  lo,  I  am  alone, 
And  the  midnight  is  here. 


Your  hands  are  red  with  henna, 
And  you  wear  a  Cashmere  shawl ; 

Such  gay  and  cruel  colors 
Become  you  best  of  all. 


204  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

You  stand  in  blooming  beauty, 
Like  a  mulberry-tree,  my  dear  : 

I've  eaten  mulberries  often, 
But  not  enough  this  year. 

We  did  not  sit  together, 
Nor  touch  our  knees  again  : 

I  talked  with  you  so  little 
I  could  not  tell  my  pain. 

Come  to  me  in  the  morning, 
Again  when  day  doth  end  : 

Nobody,  love,  will  mind  it, 
They'll  say  you  are  my  friend  ! 


She  does  not  hear  my  sighing, 

My  rose,  my  willow  leaf; 
And  if  she  heard ,  what  matter  ? 

She  would  not  heal  my  grief. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  when  day  breaks, 
And  come  when  day  doth  close  ; 

I'm  drunken  with  your  beauty, 
O  European  Rose  ! 

And  if  she's  from  Arabia, 

This  little  love  of  mine, 
Her  mouth  shall  be  my  wine-glass. 

Her  kiss  shall  be  my  wine  ! 

Her  travelling-packs  arc  ready. 
She  fastens  on  her  shawl  ; 

Were  I  the  shawl  I'd  hold  her, 
She  should  not  go  at  all. 


PERSIAN   SONGS.  205 

When  shall  I  see  thee,  darling, 

And  lighten  my  poor  heart  ? 
I  come  once  more  to  whisper 

Its  secrets — and  depart. 


Do  not  yet  put  on  your  slippers, 

I  shall  die  : 
Do  not  take  your  veil,  beloved, 

Do  not  fly ! 
Ah,  so  sweet  your  conversation, 

Do  not  go  ; 
Stop  a  minute,  Rose,  my  darling, 

Leave  not  so  ! 
'Tis  the  very  hour  for  prattle, 

'Tis  the  hour, 
O  my  darling !  O  my  sweetest 

Poppy  flower ! 
See,  the  ceiling  of  the  chamber 

Painted  fine  ; 
Rose  was  never  like  your  blushes, 

Rose  of  mine  ! 

0  my  sunflower  !     My  beloved  ! 

Linger  here  : 
Linger,  I  have  lost  all  patience. 

All,  my  dear. 
Sweetheart,  'tis  a  lonely  chamber. 

No  one  near  : 
Rose  of  Khansar,  sweet  as  amber, 

Blossom  here  ! 
Hurry,  hurry  on  the  wedding. 

Or  I  die; 

1  am  dying,  dead  already, 

If  you  fly  ! 


206        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Sweetheart,  with  your  eyebrow  bending, 

Like  a  bow  ; 
And  your  arrowy  glances  flying, 

So,  and  so ; 
Stop,  my  love,  another  minute. 

Do  not  go ! 


I  FELL  in  love  with  a  Turkish  maid, 

(She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake,) 
A  scarlet  turban  covers  her  head, 

(She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake.) 
My  eyes  are  red  with  tears, 

And  my  sighs  like  smoke  are  driven. 
The  smoke  of  my  burning  heart 

Reaching  the  seventh  heaven. 
The  happiness  of  the  world 

Awakes  for  her  sweet  sake  ; 
But  she,  she. 
Who  is  more  than  happiness  to  me, 

She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake. 

I  came  and  saw  the  maid  asleep, 
(For  sometimes  eyes  forget  to  weep, 
And  hearts  forget  to  ache  ;) 
My  arms  embraced 
Her  slender  waist, 
And  with  my  hands  I  pressed 
The  citrons  of  her  breast  ; 

(She  slept,  she  did  not  wake). 
Who  weds,  they  say,  a  maiden. 
Has  a  world  of  sweets  in  store, 

Fresh  as  the  buds  in  May  ; 
But  the  riper  charms  of  widows 


PERSIAN   SONGS.  20/ 

Are  like  the  fruits  of  autumn 

That  drop  from  day  to  day. 
I  measure  with  my  steps  the  shore, 
I  hearken  to  the  ocean's  roar, 

My  heart  is  like  to  break — 
She  sleeps,  she  does  not  wake ! 


It  is  a  morn  in  winter, 
The  air  is  white  with  snow. 

And  on  the  chinar  branches 
Jasmines  seem  to  gro%v. 

The  furrowed  fields  and  hill-tops 

With  icy  treasures  shine. 
Like  scales  of  silver  fishes. 

Or  jewels  in  a  mine. 

The  bitter  wind  has  banished 

The  silent  nightingale, 
And  the  rose,  like  some  coy  maiden, 

Is  muffled  in  a  veil. 

Its  silver  song  of  summer 
No  more  the  fountain  sings. 

And  frozen  are  the  rivers 
That  fed  the  baths  of  kings. 

No  flower-girls  in  the  market, 
For  flowers  are  out  of  date  ; 

And  the  keepers  of  the  roses 
Have  shut  the  garden  eate. 


208  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

No  happy  guests  are  drinking 

Their  goblets  crowned  with  wine  ; 

For  gone  are  all  the  merchants 
That  sold  the  merry  wine. 

And  gone  the  dancing  maidens 
Before  the  winds  and  snows  : 

Their  summer  souls  have  followed 
The  nightingale  and  rose  ! 


Joy  may  be  a  miser, 

But  Sorrow's  purse  is  free. 
I  had  two  griefs  already, 

He  gave  two  more  to  me. 
He  filled  my  eyes  with  water, 

He  filled  my  heart  with  pain  ; 
And  then,  the  liberal  fellow, 

He  promised  to  again. 


Thus  to  waste  the  precious  hours. 
With  the  hues  and  scents  of  flowers, 
Captured  by  the  woman's  eyes 
That  bestows  them,  is  not  wise. 

Take  the  flowers  that  longest  live, 
And  the  sweetest  odors  give ; 
Scarce  a  summer's  day  they  bloom. 
Frailer  still  is  woman's  doom. 


PERSIAN   SONGS.  2O9 

Therefore  keep  thy  fancy  free, 
Woman  knows  not  constancy  : 
This  the  soundest  wits  approve, 
This  is  wise — but  not  to  love  ! 


Day    and    night   my  thoughts   incUne 
To  the  blandishments  of  wine  : 
Jars  were  made  to  drain,  I  think, 
Wine,  I  know,  was  made  to  drink. 

When  I  die,  (the  day  be  far  !) 
Should  the  potters  make  a  jar 
Out  of  this  poor  clay  of  mine, 
Let  the  jar  be  filled  with  wine  ! 


In  the  market-place  one  day 
I  saw  a  potter  stamping  clay, 
And  the    clay  beneath    his    tread 
Lifted  up  its  voice,  and  said, 
"  Potter,  gentle  be  with  me, 
I  was  once  a  man  like  thee." 


{Sadi.') 

Apart  from  all  the  creatures  of  the  earth 

I  sit  and  weep  aloud,  and  in  my  grief 

My  eyes  send  up  to  heaven  their  hopeless  tears. 


210         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Even  as  a  little  boy  whose  bird  is  flown 

From  out  his  hand  still  weeps  for  that  same  bird, 

So  I  bewail  my  sweet  but  vanished  life. 


{Hakim  Sanayi.) 

What  sweetness  is  there  in  the   honeycomb, 
That  is  not  tasted,  Sweetest,  in  thy  kiss  ? 

What  beauty  is  there  in  the  pheasant's  walk 
That  is  not  seen,  beloved,  in  thy  step  ? 

What  heart  in  all  the  city  is  not  thine  ? 
The  heart  that  is  not  thine  no  longer  beats. 

The  bird  that  flies  not  to  thy  nest  of  love 
Deserves  to  fly  no  more  :  why  has  he  wings  ? 


TARTAR  SONGS. 

Yes,  we  are  merry  Cossacks, 
Though  not  the  Russian  breed  ; 

But  bring  a  steed  from   Ilmen, 
And  fatten  the  lean  steed. 

When    we    come   back  with   plunder. 
We  are  true  Cossacks  then  : 

We  sleep  in  the  arms  of  beauties, 
My  merry,  merry  men. 


TARTAR   SONGS.  211 


The  merry  spring  is  here, 
Then  come  before  it  fades, 

Pluck  handfuls  of  red  roses. 
And  kiss  the  Hps  of  maids. 

The  hps  of  maids  in  spring 
Are  cardamoms  and  cloves  ; 

Let  each  fair   maid  come   hither. 
And  kiss  the  man  she  loves. 


I  AM  drunk  with  thy  fragrant  breath, 
Come  hither,  my  girl,  to  me ; 

Of  all  the  girls  that  I  know, 
I  have  given  my  heart  to  thee. 

In  the  fruits  of  beauty  around, 

Thou  art  my  peach,  and  my  pear ; 

O  when  wilt  thou  lie  on  my  breast, 
From  dusk  till  dawn,  my  fair  ? 


I  WANDERED  by  a  river, 

And  met  a  lady  fair, 
And  she  was  busy  bathing 

Behind  her  veil  of  hair. 

"  If  I  should  buy,  sweet  idol, 
Your  ringlets  long  and  rare, 

Tell  me  the  price."     She  answered, 
*'  A  pearl  for  every  hair." 


212  THE   BOOK   OP^   THE   EAST. 


O  FOLLOWER  of  the  Prophet, 
My  heart  is  again  on  fire  ; 

A  certain  man  has  a  daughter 
Who  kindles  my  desire. 

How  shall  you  find  the  Houri  ? 

Easy  enough,  d'ye  see  ; 
Before  the  door  of  her  dwelling 

There  grows  a  mulberry-tree. 


He  rode  from  the  Khora  Tukhan 

On  his  nimble  bay  steed, 
For  the  eyes  of  his  mistress,  Girgalla, 

Forsaking  his  creed. 

He  gave  his  broad  belt  to  his  comrade. 

Why  scoff  you  ?  he  said. 
The  sheep  are  all  killed  for  the  wedding. 

The  dishes  are  spread. 

I  have  sat  in  the  rains  and  the  thunders. 

Alone  since  she  went. 
I  would  I  could  sit  down  beside  her, 

Beneath  the  white  tent ! 

When  I  lift  to  my  lips  the  red  tea-cup, 

Slow  sipping  the  tea, 
I  think  of  the  lips  of  Girgalla, 

And  sigh,  "  Woe  is  me  !  " 


TARTAR   SONGS.  213 

I  peeped  through  the  snowy  tent  curtains, 

Girgalla  was  there  : 
She  stood  Uke  a  peacock  before  me, 

No  peacock  so  fair. 

Your  head  on  the  lap  of  Girgalla, 

Stretched  out  at  your  ease. 
No  cushion,  you  say,  of  swan's  feathers 

So  soft  as  her  knees  ! 


Blow,  Wind,  blow. 

And  carry  news  of  me 

Away  to  Astrabad, 

Away  to  my  Sakina; 

And  soon  as  you  have  seen  her 

Say,  "  A  Tartar  lad 

Sends  this  kiss  to  thee." 

Then,  your  sweet  lips  pressed 

To  her  snowy  breast, 

Kiss  her  so — and  so  ! 


My  war-horse  was  fond  of  my  singing 

The  free  songs  of  yore  : 
But  now  he'll  remain  in  the  stable — 

I  shall  ride  him  no  more. 

My  Tartar  girls,  fair  as  the  billows, 

In  the  tents  will  remain ; 
They  will  find  a  new  lord,  and  the  horse 

A  new  rider  again. 


214  I^HE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

But  my  mother,  dear  heart,  when  she  loses 

Her  rider  so  brave. 
Will  be  true  to  the  love  that  she  bears  me- 

She  will  find  a  dark  grave  ! 


I  AM  a  white  falcon,  hurrah! 

My  home  is  the  mountains  so  high ; 
But  away  o'er  the  lands  and  the  waters, 

Wherever  I  please,  I  can  fly, 

I  wander  from  city  to  city, 

I  dart  from  the  wave  to  the  cloud, 

And  when  I  am  dead  I  shall  slumber 
With  my  own  white  wings  for  a  shroud, 


I  AM  dying  of  the  brand 

Love  has  burned  upon  my  heart ; 
Let  me  come  to  my  death 

By  the  girdle  that  you  wear. 
I  must  see  you  twice,  or  thrice, 

Ere  the  day  can  depart. 
Or  I  ask  after  you. 

Of  the  birds  in  the  air ! 


Wail  on,  thou  bleeding  nightingale, 
I  join  my  wail  with  thine  ; 

Deplore  thy  passion  for  the  rose, 
And  let  me  weep  for  mine. 


ARAB   SONGS.  21  5 

Lament  thy  rose  for  seventy  days, 

She  Hvcs,  and  may  reply  ; 
But  mine  is  dead,  and  I  must  weep, 

Or  break  my  heart,  and  die  ! 


Forgive  me,  mother  dear, 

For  the  days  of  unrest 
And  the  sleepless  nights  you  passed 

When  I  sucked  from  your  breast. 

Dig  my  grave  on  a  hill. 
On  the  summit  let  it  stand, 

That  the  wind  may  blow  my  dust 
To  my  own  Tartar  land. 


ARAB   SONGS. 

0  LOVELY  fawn !  O  my  gazelle  ! 
O  moon  on  summer  seas  ! 

Full  moon  whose  beauty  doth  surpass 
The  Pleiades ! 

1  swear  an  oath  to  fast  a  month 
The  day  that  I  am  blest, 

The  happy  day  I  press  thee,  dear, 
Upon  my  breast ! 


Break  thou  my  heart,  ah,  break  it, 

If  such  thy  pleasure  be  ; 
Thy  will  is  mine,  what  say  I  ? 

'Tis  more  than  mine  to  me. 


2l6  THE   BOOK   OF  THE   EAST. 

And  if  my  life  offend  thee, 
My  passion  and  my  pain, 

Take  thou  my  Ufe,  ah,  take  it, 
But  spare  me  thy  disdain ! 


Beloved,  since  they  watch  us, 

For  all  we  meet  are  spies, 
And  we  can  have  no  messengers. 

Except  our  loving  eyes, 

I  check  my  fiery  feelings, 
The  words  I  must  not  speak, 

Content  to  see,  I  dare  not  pluck. 
The  roses  of  thy  cheek. 

Give  me  a  glance,  beloved. 
Now  none  are  near  to  see  : 

My  downcast  eyes  will  read  my  palms, 
I  will  not  look  at  thee. 

It  is  not  resignation, 

It  is  the  deepest  art  : 
Be  wary,  then,  and  doubt  no  more, 

But  trust  my  loving  heart. 


Thou  art  my  only  love, 
The  world  is  nothing  now 

In  no  walled  garden  grows 
So  fair  a  branch  as  ihou. 


ARAB   SONGS.  217 

Thou  hast  forgotten  all, 

Ah  yes,  it  must  be  so. 
She  should  have  been  my  friend. 

She  has  become  my  foe. 

I've  drunk  the  bitter  cup, 

Since  we  were  parted,  Sweet ; 
The  tears  I  shed  have  made 

This  river  at  my  feet ! 

Ah,  long,  long  hours  of  love ! 

Ah,  nights  we  stole  from  sleep  ! 
When  such  sweet  nights  are  gone, 

It  is  no  shame  to  weep! 


I  HID  my  love  when  near  you, 

My  pain  for  your  sweet  sake  ; 
But  now  that  you  arc  absent, 

My  heart  must   speak,  or   break. 
God  save  you  from  such  passion, 

It  never  knows  despair, 
For  whether  kind  or  cruel, 

You  are  the  only  fair. 

You  will  not  see  me,  Sweetest, 

Nor  answer,  when  I  call  ; 
But  I  will  follow,  follow 

Beyond  the  giant's  wall. 
Go,  shut  your  door  against  me, 

I  will  not  doubt,  or  fear  ; 
God  still  leaves  one  door  open. 

The  door  of  hope,  my  dear! 

lo 


21 8  THE   BOOK   OF  THE   EAST. 

Could  I  have  loved  another, 

That  time  is  now  no  more  ; 
I  cover  with  my  kisses 

The  threshold  of  your  door. 
Open  the  door  of  pity, 

And  hear  my  burning  sigh. 
For  absent  from  you  longer 

Is  sadder  than  to  die  ! 


"  Girl,  I  love  thee  !  "     Her  reply 

Was  the  saucy  one,  "  You  lie  ! 

If  you  love  me,  as  you  say. 

Why  are  you  alive  to-day  ? 

I  will  tell  you  what  to  do: 

There  will  be  no  love  in  you 

Till  your  blood  is  weak  and  thin, 

And  your  bones  prick  through  your  skin ; 

Till  you  wither,  heart  and  mind, 

And  are  nearly  deaf  and  blind. 

Scarcely  hear  them  when  they  call. 

And  not  answer  them  at  all ; 

Till  you  never  prate  again 

Of  your  love,  and  my  disdain, 

No,  nor  breathe  it  in  your  sighs  ; 

Or  at  least  until  your  eyes, 

Blind  with  tears  that  rain  for  me, 

Shall  your  only  vouchers  be." 

Master  of  the  Universe! 
If  there  be  a  deeper  curse 
Than  this  terrible  despair, 
(Burden  more  than  1  can  bear,) 
O  let  Leila  have  her  share  ! 


ARAB   SONGS.  219 


Let  my  love  divided  be, 
Half  to  her,  and  half  to  me  ; 
Or,  if  this  be  not  her  fate, 
Let  her  neither  love  nor  hate. 
Only  be  indifferent, 
I  will  try  to  be  content. 

"Ah,  but  she  is  sick,"  you  say. 
Why  was  I  not  sent  for,  pray  ? 
There  is  danger  in  delay. 
I  have  taken  my  degree 
(Leila  knows,  my  master,  she,) 
Let  me  her  physician  be. 
These  diseases  of  the  heart 
Are  beyond  the  reach  of  art  t 
He  who  gives  can  cure  the  smart. 


If  you  meet  my  sweet  gazelle. 
By  these  signs  you'll  know  her  well  : 
Eyes  like  arrows,  black  and  bright, 
Checks  the  fiery  rose  of  night, 
And  her  voice  a  silver  bell. 

I  am  burning  with  desire, 
Like  a  parchment  in  the  fire  ; 
I  am  dying,  hear  my  cry, 
'Tis  for  love  of  thee  I  die. 
Emir's  Daughter,  Peacock's  Eye! 

Hearts  of  rocks,  be  soft  to  me, 
Or  my  tears  will  soften  thee. 
In  my  passion  and  my  pain 
Flowing  down  my  checks  like  rain, 
And  they  will  not  flow  in  vain  ! 


220        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

I  know  where  her  palace  stands, 
It  is  in  the  far-off  lands, 
Over  mountains,  over  sands  : 
Seldom  letters  reach  her  there, 
Never  wretched  lover's  prayer. 

I  am  dying,  for  no  art 
Can  relieve  my  broken  heart. 
What  I  suffer  none  can  tell, 
Blasted  by  the  fires  of  hell. 
By  the  love  of  that  gazelle  ! 

There's  a  stately  palm  that  grows 
Where  the  purest  water  flows  : 
She's  its  fruit  :  her  lips  are  red 
As  the  blush  that  rubies  shed, 
Or  the  west  when  day  is  dead. 

Life  and  death  are  met  in  me, 
But  I  only  think  of  thee. 
Let  the  happy  fool  complain. 
What  is  dying  ?   Where's  the  pain  ? 
I  have  lived,  and  loved  in  vain  ! 


CHINESE   SONGS. 

L^P  in  an  old  pagoda's  highest  tower 

I  sat,  and  watched  the  falling  shades  of  eve. 

Long  curls  of  smoke,  and  sounds  of  distant  lutes 
As  faint  as  smoke,  spread  through  the  lonely  wood. 


CHINESE   SONGS.  221 

The  evening  wind  blew  over  the  cool  stream, 
Troubling  the  pallid  pin-flowers  on  its  bank  ; 

And  where  the  autumnal  hills  were  thickly  strewn 
With  faded,  fallen  leaves  the  hoar-frost  fell. 

Naught  could  I  see  in  all  that  cloudless  sky 
Except  the  wild  goose  flying  to  the  South. 

Harkening  in  bright  moonshine  I  heard  the  sound 
Of  distant  villagers  beating  out  their  rice. 

Then,  thinking  of  the  friend,  whose  absent  face 

The  long  year  through,  not  once  has  brightened  mine, 

I  sought  the  window  shaded  o'er  with  pines, 
And  struck  the  strings  of  my  melodious  lute. 


{Soo   Hiouy.) 

What  time  my  husband  went  to  banishment, 

I  followed  to  the  foot  of  yonder  bridge  ; 

I  bore  my  grief,  but  could  not  say.  "  Farewell  !  " 

Ah,  why  have  you  not  written  me,  my  love  ? 
Our  couch,  remember,  even  in  spring  is  cold. 
The  staircase  that  you  built  has  crumbled  down. 
And  dust  has  soiled  the  windows  and  white  curtains, 

My  mind  is  sore  perplexed  ;  I  would  I  were 
The  shadow  of  the  moon  upon  the  sea, 
The  cloud  that  floats  above  the  lofty  hills. 
The  careless  clouds  behold  my  husband's  face. 


222         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

And  she,  the  sea-moon,  in  her  monthly  round  ; 
They  know  the  man  a  thousand  leagues  away. 

The  tall  green  rushes  by  the  river's  side 
Have  faded,  since  we  parted  ;    but  the  plum — 
Who  would  have  thought  before  we  met  again 
The  plum-tree  would  have  blossomed  many  times  ? 

The  flowers  unfold  themselves  to  meet  the  spring; 
Our  hearts  unfold  in  vain,  no  spring  is  ours. 
My  thoughts  are  busied  so  with  your  return 
The  willow  at  the  door  droops  to  the  ground, 
And  no  one  sweeps  away  its  fallen  leaves. 

The  grass  before  the  house  grows  thick  and  rank  ; 
My  husband's  flute  hangs  idle  in  the  hall  ; 
He  sings  no  more  the  songs  of  Keang-nan. 

Because  no  letter  comes  to  me,  my  lord. 

My  silver  dress  that  on  my  pillow  lies 

Is  dyed  with  tears,  and  tears  have  spoiled  the  flowers 

Broidered  in  gold  upon  my  satin  robe. 

Thrice  have  I  heard  in  spring  the  wild-fowl's  cry. 
Crossing  the  swollen  stream.     I  sing  old  songs ; 
My  heart-strings  seem  to  break  upon  the  lute. 
I  faint  with  love,  and  grief;    grief  ends  my  song. 

Forget  not,  O  my  lord,  your  own  true  wife. 

Your  wife,  whose  love  is  firmer  than  the  hills. 

Whose  thoughts  are  filled  with  you.     She  weaves  this  song 

To  win  the  gracious  ear  of  Majesty. 

O  Son  of  Heaven  !     Let  him  return,  and  soon  ! 


CHINESE   SONGS.  223 


{'' Kaiig  Chi:') 

I. 

MOULAN  is  weaving  at  her  cottage  door. 
You  cannot  hear  the  weaving  shuttles  fly, 
You  only  hear  the  young  girl  sigh  and  moan. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?    Why  do  you  moan?" 
The  young  girl  thinks  of  nothing,  yet  she  moans. 

"  I  saw  the  army  record  yesterday; 

The  Emperor  is  levying  troops  again  ; 

The  book  has  twelve  long  chapters,  and  in  each 

I  saw  enrolled  my  honored  father's  name. 

What  can  be  done  to  save  the  poor  old  man  ? 
Thou  hast  no  grandson,  father,  no,  not  one. 
Thou  hast  no  elder  brother,  O,  Moulan  ! 
What  shall  I  do  ?     I  will  arise,  and  go. 
And  buy  a  horse  and  saddle.     I  will  go, 
And  serve  and  fight  in  my  dear  father's  stead." 

She  buys  a  swift  horse  at  the  eastern  market, 

A  saddle  and  a  horse-cloth  at  the  western, 

And  at  the  southern  a  long  horseman's  whip. 

When  morning  comes  she  smiles  and  says,  "  Farewell, 

Father  and  mother."     She  will  pass  the  night 

Beside  the  Yellow  River.     She  hears  no  more 

Father,  or  mother,  calling  for  their  child  ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  Yellow  River 

Is  all  she  hears.     Another  morning  comes ; 

She  starts  again,  and  bids  the  stream  farewell. 

She  journeys  on,  and  when  the  evening  comes 


224         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

She  reaches  the  Black  River.     She  hears  no  more 
Father,  or  mother,  sighing  for  their  child  ; 
She  hears  the  savage  horsemen  of  Yen  Shen. 

II. 
"  Where  have  you  been,  Moulan,  these  twelve  long  years  ?  " 
"We  marched  and  fought  our  way  ten  thousand  miles. 
Swift  as  a  bird  I  cleared  the  gulfs  and  hills. 
The  north-wind  brought  the  night  bell  to  my  ear, 
The  moonlight  fell  upon  my  iron  mail. 

Twelve  years  are  past.     We  meet  the  Emperor 
When  we  return  ;    he  sits  upon  his  thronCo 
He  gives  this  man  a  badge  of  honor,  that 
An  hundred  or  a  thousand  silver  ounces. 
'  And  what  shall  he  give  me  ?  '     And  I  reply  : 
'  Nor  wealth,  nor  office  ;    only  lend  Moulan — 
She  asks  no  more — a  camel,  fleet  of  foot, 
To  lead  her  to  her  honored  father's  roof.'  " 

Soon  as  the  father  and  the  mother  learn 
Moulan's  return  they  haste  to  meet  their  child; 
Soon  as  the  younger  sisters  see  them  go 
They  leave  the  chamber  in  their  best  attire  ; 
Soon  as  the  brave  young  brother  hears  the  news 
He  straightway  whets  a  knife  to  kill  a  sheep. 

"  My  mother  takes  my  warrior's  armor  off, 
And  clothes  me  in  my  woman's  garb  again: 
My  younger  sisters,  standing  by  the  door, 
Are  twining  golden  flowers  in  their  hair." 

Then  Moulan  left  the  room,  and  went  to  meet 

Her  fellow-soldiers,  who  were  much  amazed  ; 

For  twelve  long  years  she  marched  and  fought  with  them, 

And  yet  they  guessed  not  Moulan  was  a  girl. 


CHINESE   SONGS.  22$ 


( Yuen  Yhcji.') 

We  started  when  the  clarion  of  the  cock 
Was  ceasing,  and  the  first  thin  curl  of  smoke 
Rose  from  the  village  ;  not  a  withered  leaf 
Waved  in  the  frozen  forest,  and  no  bird 
Sang  there,  but  flocks  were  lighting  on  the  plain. 
In  vain  they  pecked  for  food,  the  barren  plain 
Bore  naught  but  rotten  grass  ;  frost  hid  the  roots ; 
So  back  they  hastened  to  their  empty  nests. 

The  gray-haired  village  farmer,  up  at  dawn 
To  fondle  his  grandchildren,,  hears  the  shout, 
'■'A  Mandarin  is  passing!"     Staff  in  hand 
He  gazes,  leaning  on  his  matted  door. 
West  of  his  house  we  see  great  stacks  of  straw. 
And  in  the  east  the  golden  beams  of  day ; 
His  thick  warm  garments  and  his  ruddy  face 
Are  signs  of  plenty,  and,  I  shrewdly  guess, 
That  somewhere  in  his  house  could  still  be  found 
One  measure  more  of  rice,  stowed  in  the  bin. 


{Kcaa . ) 

Millions  of  flowers  are  blowing  in  the  fields. 
On  the  blue  river's  brink  the  peony 
Burns  red,  and  where  doves  coo  the  lute  is  heard, 
And  hoarse  black  crows  caw  to  the  eastern  wind. 

Under  the  plane-tree  in  the  shaded  grove. 
Screened  from  the  light  and  heat,  the  idler  sits, 
Brooding  above  his  chess-board  all  day  long, 
lo* 


226  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST, 

Nor  marks,  so  deep  his  dream,  how  fast  the  sun 
Descends  at  evening  to  its  western  house. 

When  autumn  comes  men  close  their  doors  and  read, 
Or  at  the  window  loll  to  catch  the  breeze 
Freighted  with  fragrance  from  the  cinnamon. 

The  snow  is  falling  on  the  balustrade 

Like  dying  petals,  and  the  icicle 

Hangs  like  a  gem  ;  all  crowd  around  the  fire  : 

Rich  men  now  drink  their  wine  with  merry  hearts, 

And  sing  old  songs,  nor  heed  the  blast  without. 


{Too-Mo.) 

The  shadows  of  the  swallows 
Have  crossed  the  autumn  rivers, 
Then  let  us  climb  the  mountains. 

And  friend  with  friend  carouse  : 
We'll  take  a  bottle  with  us. 
And  drink  like  merry  fellows, 
And  stagger  back  at  sunset. 

With  flowers  about  our  brows. 

But  no,  let's  drain  our  bottles 
At  noon  in  this  bright  garden, 
For  dark  and  sad  the  sunsets 

On  distant  mountains  shine. 
The  days  of  old  have  vanished. 
Then  drink,  and  laugh,  to-day,  boys, 
Nor  stain  with  tears  your  garments, 

They're  better  stained  with  wine ! 


CHINESE   SONGS.  22"] 


{He-Kwaii.) 

The  farmer  cuts  the  So  leaves, 
And  weaves  his  rainy  cloak ; 

His  cot  is  on  the  hillside, 
You  see  it  by  the  smoke. 

His  rustic  wife  soon  hails  him, 

"  The  nice  boiled  pears  are  done." 

The  children  from  the  pea-field 
To  meet  their  daddy  run. 

In  the  shaded  lake  the  fishes 

Are  swimming  to  and  fro  ; 
The  little  birds  brush  each  other, 

As  back  to  the  hills  they  go. 

Crowds  will  be  going  and  coming, 
In  the  happy  season  of  flowers  ; 

But  could  I  find  the  philosopher's  stone, 
I'd  fish  in  the  brook  for  hours. 


East,  or  west,  to  the  pastures. 
We  lead  our  herds  at  ease  ; 

Having  no  master  to  goad  us. 
We  spend  the  time  as  we  please. 

In  the  green  bamboos  together 
We  cut  our  reeds,  and  play  ; 

Or  sit  in  the  long  grass  patching 
Our  cloaks  for  a  rainy  day. 


22S        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Or  twist  the  ropes  of  the  heifers, 
And  make  them  stout  and  long, 

Tuning  our  merry  voices 

To  smg  the  herdsman's  song. 

We  point  at  the  restless  miser. 
And  laugh  in  his  face  with  glee. 

"  Your  legs  are  mighty  travellers, 
What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

"  Ride  who  will  on  horseback, 
The  cow  is  sure  and  strong." 

Thus,  by  the  springs  in  the  coppice, 
We  sing  the  herdsman's  song. 


He  saw  in  sight  of  his  house, 

At  dusk,  as  stories  tell, 
A  woman  picking  mulberries. 

And  he  liked  her  looks  right  well. 

He  struggled  out  of  his  chair,  \ 

And  began  to  beckon  and  call ; 

But  she  went  on  picking  mulberries. 
Nor  looked  at  him  at  all. 

*'  If  Famine  should  follow  you, 
He  would  find  the  harvest  in  ; 

You  think  yourself  and  your  mulberries 
Too  good  for  a  Mandarin. 

I  have  yellow  gold  in  my  sleeve." 
But  she  answered,  sharp  and  bold, 

"Be  off!  Let  me  pick  my  mulberries, 
I  am  bought  with  no  man's  gold." 


CHINESE  SONGS.  229 

She  scratched  his  face  with  her  nails, 

Till  he  turned  and  fled  for  life, 
For  the  lady  picking  mulberries 

Was  his  true  and  virtuous  wife  ! 


Before  the  scream  of  the  hawk 

The  timid  swallow  flies  ; 
And  the  lake  unrolled  in  the  distance 

Like  a  silver  carpet  lies. 

The  light  that  sleeps  in  the  air 

Like  the  breath  of  flowers  is  sweet ; 

The  very  dust  is  balmy 
Under  the  horses'  feet. 

We  sit  in  the  tennis  court, 

Where  the  beautiful  sunlight  falls ; 
The  mountains  crossed  by  bridges 

Come  down  to  the  city  walls. 

The  houses  are  hid  in  flowers, 

Buried  in  bloomy  trees  ; 
But  under  the  veils  of  the  willows 

Are  glimpses  of  cottages. 

What  makes  the  wind  so  sw-eet  ? 

Is  it  the  breath  of  June  ? 
'T  is  the  jasper  flute  in  the  pear-tree, 

Playing  a  silent  tune  ! 


230        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


The  dark  and  rainy  weather 
That  now  has  taken  flight 

Has  made  the  sunshine  brighter, 
And  filled  our  hearts  with  light. 

The  groves  are  full  of  song-birds, 
And  troops  of  butterflies 

Are  hovering  o'er  the  peach-trees. 
Like  blossoms  of  the  skies. 

The  flowers  that  have  not  faded, 
But  to  the  boughs  still  cling, 

Are  hanging  every  garden 
With  tapestries  of  spring. 

And  see,  the  happy  students, 
Have  met  by  scores  to  dine 

Beneath  the  willow  branches. 
And  drain  the  cups  of  wine. 


Stretched  in  flowers  and  moonlight, 

The  poet  took  his  lute  ; 
His  mind  was  full  of  sweetness, 

A  salver  heaped  with  fruit. 

"  The  odor  of  the  blossoms, 
It  breathes  upon  my  heart ; 

But  the  thoughts  it  quickens 
No  language  can  impart. 


CHINESE  SONGS.  23 1 

The  whiteness  of  the  blossoms, 

The  young  moon's  virgin  hght, 
They  make  mc  think  of  marriage, 

The  happy  bridal  night. 

I  see  a  troop  of  damsels, 

My  own  dear  love  I  see  : 
They  are  willow  branches, 

A  peach  blossom,  she." 


It  grieves  the  bee  and  butterfly 
Because  they  strive  in  vain 

To  hoard  the  scent  of  flowers, 
Whose  honeyed  cups  they  drain. 

The  swallow  and  the  loriot 

Are  not  so  swift  of  wing, 
For  the  summer  overtakes  them, 

As  they  chase  the  sweets  of  spring. 

It  is  the  King  of  the  East,  dear. 
That  makes  the  flowers  to  grow ; 

Nor  can  the  rains  prevent  them, 
Nor  all  the  winds  that  blow. 


Now  the  wind  is  softest. 
Lightest  now  the  shower, 

And  in  an  hour  the  barren  boughs 
Begin  to  bud  and  flower. 


232         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Happy  thoughts  are  brooding 

On  the  song  I  sing, 
As  to  the  arch  of  yonder  bridge 

The  mists  of  morning  cUng. 

Pitiful  the  miser, 

Who  digs  the  earth  for  gold  ; 
I  would  sooner  hoard  the  snow. 

So  barren  and  so  cold. 

No,  I  love  thee,  Sweetest, 
And  the  wandering  dove — 

I  send  her  with  a  sigh  to  thee, 
A  little  verse  of  love. 

"  Go  count  the  silken  tresses 
That  hang  on  yonder  tree  ; 

So  many  are  my  loving  thoughts. 
And  so  they  cling  to  thee  !  " 


The  grove  is  crowned  with  hoar-frost, 
And  clothed  in  robes  of  snow ; 

But  buds  of  tender  purple 
On  all  the  branches  blow. 

They  rain  upon  the  river. 

As  winds  go  sweeping  by, 
Redden  the  waves  a  moment. 

And  then  like  torches  die. 

At  the  foot  of  yonder  gallery 

I  see  a  beauteous  girl  ; 
She  has  a  thousand  garments 

Of  satin  and  of  pearl. 


CHINESE   SONGS.  233 

The  blossoms  blush  to  meet  her, 

It  is  the  maiden  Spring, 
For  hark,  among  the  branches 

I  hear  the  cuckoo  sing ! 


("  Shi  Kingr) 

I  HEAR  the  sacred  swan, 

In  its  river  island  sing ; 
I  see  the  modest  maiden, 

A  consort  for  a  king. 

The  tendrils  of  the  Hang 
Are  green  and  white  below. 

Along  the  running  waters 
Swaying  to  and  fro. 

The  king  has  sought  the  maid, 

His  passion  is  so  strong  : 
And  day  and  night  he  murmurs, 

"  How  long,  alas,  how  long!" 

He  turns  him  on  his  bed. 

He  tosses  in  his  woe  ; 
His  thoughts  are  like  the  Hang  plants, 

Swaying  to  and  fro. 

Again  I  hear  the  swan, 

In  a  palace  garden  sing ; 
Again  I  see  the  maiden, 

The  consort  of  the  king. 


234  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

The  king  is  happy  now, 

For  see,  the  maiden  comes. 

And  hark,  the  bells  are  ringing, 
And  hark,  the  noise  of  drums  ! 


A  WOMAN'S   POEM. 

You  say  you  love  me,  and  you  lay 

Your  hand  and  fortune  at  my  feet  : 
I  thank  you,  sir,  with  all  my  heart, 
For  love  is  sweet. 

It  is  but  little  to  you  men. 

To  whom  the  doors  of  Life  stand  wide  ; 
But  much,  how  much  to  woman  !     She 
Has  naught  beside. 

You  make  the  worlds  wherein  you  move, 

You  rule  your  tastes,  or  coarse,  or  fine  ; 
Dine,  hunt,  or  fish,  or  waste  your  gold 
At  dice  and  wine. 

Our  world  (alas,  you  make  that,  too  !) 

Is  narrower,  shut  in  four  blank  walls  : 
Know  you,  or  care,  what  light  is  there  ? 
What  shadow  falls  ? 

We  read  the  last  new  novel  out. 

And  live  in  dream-land  till  it  ends  : 
We  write  romantic  school-girl  notes. 

That  bore  our  friends. 


A  woman's  poem.  235 

Wc  learn  to  trill  Italian  songs, 

And  thrum  for  hours  the  tortured  keys  : 
We  think  it  pleases  you,  and  we 

But  live  to  please. 

We  feed  our  birds,  we  tend  our  flowers, 
(Poor  in-door  things  of  sickly  bloom,) 
Or  play  the  housewife  in  our  gloves, 
And  dust  the  room. 

But  some  of  us  have  hearts  and  minds. 

So  much  the  worse  for  us  and  you  ; 
For  grant  we  seek  a  better  life, 

What  can  we  do  ? 

We  cannot  build  and  sail  your  ships. 

Or  drive  your  engines  ;  we  are  weak. 
And  ignorant  of  the  tricks  of  Trade. 

To  think,  and  speak. 

Or  write  some  earnest,  stammering  words 

Alone  is  ours,  and  that  you  hate  ; 
So  forced  within  ourselves  again 

We  sigh  and  wait. 

Ah,  who  can  tell  the  bitter  hours, 

The  dreary  days,  that  women  spend  ? 
Their  thoughts  unshared,  their  lives  unknown, 
Without  a  friend  ! 

Without  a  friend?     And  what  is  he. 

Who,  like  a  shadow,  day  and  night, 
Follows  the  woman  he  prefers — 

Lives  in  her  sight  ? 


236         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Her  lover,  he  :  a  gallant  man, 
Devoted  to  her  every  whim ; 
He  vows  to  die  for  her,  so  she 

Must  live  for  him ! 

We  should  be  very  grateful,  sir. 

That,  when  you  've  nothing  else  to  do, 
You  waste  your  idle  hours  on  us — 
So  kind  of  you  ! 

Profuse  in  studied  compliments. 

Your  manners  like  your  clothes  are  fine, 
Though  both  at  times  are  somewhat  strong 
Of  smoke  and  wine. 

What  can  we  hope  to  know  of  you  ? 
Or  you  of  us  ?     We  act  our  parts  : 
We  love  in  jest  :  it  is  the  play 

Of  hands,  not  hearts  ! 

You  grant  my  bitter  words  are  true 

Of  others,  not  of  you  and  me  ; 
Your  love  is  steady  as  a  star  : 

But  we  shall  see. 

You  say  you  love  me  :  have  you  thought 
How  much  those  little  words  contain  ? 
Alas,  a  world  of  happiness, 

And  worlds  of  pain  ! 

You  know,  or  should,  your  nature  now. 

Its  needs  and  passions.     Can  I  be 
What  you  desire  me  ?     Do  you  find 
Your  all  in  me  ? 


WITHOUT   AND    WITHIN.  237 

You  do.     But  have  you  thought  that  I 

May  have  my  ways  and  fancies,  too  ? 
You  love  me  ;  well,  but  have  you  thought 
If  I  love  you  ? 

But  think  again.     You  know  me  not  : 

I,  too,  may  be  a  butterfly, 
A  costly  parlor  doll  on  show 

For  you  to  buy. 

You  trust  me  wholly  ?     One  word  more. 
You  see  me  young  :  they  call  me  fair  : 
T  think  I  have  a  pleasant  face. 

And  pretty  hair. 

But  by  and  by  my  face  will  fade, 

It  must  with  time,  it  may  with  care  : 
What  say  you  to  a  wrinkled  wife, 

With  thin,  gray  hair? 

You  care  not,  you  :  in  youth,  or  age. 

Your  heart  is  mine,  while  life  endures. 
Is  it  so  ?     Then,  Arthur,  here's  my  hand, 
My  heart  is  yours. 


WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN. 


The  night  is  dark,  and  the  winter  winds 

Go  stabbing  about  with  their  icy  spears ; 
The  sharp  hail  rattles  against  the  panes, 
And  melts  on  my  cheek  like  tears. 


238         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

'Tis  a  terrible  night  to  be  out  of  doors, 

But  some  of  us  must  be,  early  and  late  ; 
We  needn't  ask  who,  for  don't  we  know 
It  has  all  been  settled  by  Fate  ? 

Not  woman,  but  man.     Give  woman  her  flowers, 
Her  dresses,  her  jewels,  or  what  she  demands  : 
The  work  of  the  world  must  be  done  by  man, 
Or  why  has  he  brawny  hands  ? 

As  I  feel  my  way  in  the  dark  and  cold, 

I  think  of  the  chambers  warm  and  bright, 
The  nests  where  these  delicate  birds  of  ours 
Are  folding  their  wings  to-night. 

Through  the  luminous  windows,  above  and  below, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  life  they  lead  : 
Some  sew,  some  sing,  others  dress  for  the  ball, 
While  others,  fair  students,  read. 

There's  the  little  lady  who  bears  my  name, 

She  sits  at  my  table  now,  pouring  her  tea ; 
Does  she  think  of  me  as  I  hurry  home. 
Hungry  and  wet  ?     Not  she. 

She  helps  herself  to  the  sugar  and  cream 

In  a  thoughtless,  dreamy,  nonchalant  way  ; 
Her  hands  are  white  as  the  virgin  rose 

That  she  wore  on  her  wedding  day. 

My  clumsy  fingers  are  stained  with  ink, 

The  badge  of  the  Ledger,  the  mark  of  Trade  ; 
But  the  money  I  give  her  is  clean  enough. 
In  spite  of  the  way  it  is  made. 


WITHOUT   AND   WITHIN.  239 

I  wear  out  my  life  in  the  counting-room 

Over  day-book  and  cash-book,  Bought  and  Sold  ; 
My  brain  is  dizzy  with  anxious  thought, 
My  skin  is  as  sallow  as  gold. 

How  does  she  keep  the  roses  of  youth 

Still  fresh  in  her  cheek  ?     My  roses  are  flown. 
It  lies  in  a  nutshell — why  do  I  ask? 
A  woman's  life  is  her  own. 

She  gives  me  a  kiss  when  we  part  for  the  day, 

Then  goes  to  her  music,  blithe  as  a  bird  ; 
She  reads  it  at  sight,  and  the  language,  too. 
Though  I  know  never  a  word. 

She  sews  a  little,  makes  collars  and  sleeves, 

Or  embroiders  me  slippers  (always  too  small,) 
Nets  silken  purses  (for  me  to  fill,) 
Often  does  nothing  at  all 

But  dream  in  her  chamber,  holding  a  flower, 

Or  reading  my  letters — she'd  better  read  me. 
Even  now,  while  I  am  freezing  with  cold, 
She  is  cosily  sipping  her  tea. 

If  I  ever  reach  home  I  shall  laugh  aloud 

At  the  sight  of  a  roaring  fire  once  more  : 
She  must  wait,  I  think,  till  I  thaw  myself. 
For  the  nightly  kiss  at  the  door. 

I'll  have  with  my  dinner  a  bottle  of  port, 

To  warm  up  my  blood  and  soothe  my  mind  ; 
Then  a  little  music,  for  even  I 

Like  music — when  I  have  dined. 


240         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

I'll  smoke  a  pipe  in  the  easy-chair, 

And  feel  her  behind  me  patting  my  head  ; 
Or  drawing  the  little  one  on  my  knee, 
Chat  till  the  hour  for  bed. 

II. 

Will  he  never  come  ?     I  have  watched  for  him 

Till  the  misty  panes  are  roughened  with  sleet ; 
I  can  see  no  more  :    shall  1  never  hear 
The  welcome  sound  of  his  feet  ? 

I  think  of  him  in  the  lonesome  night, 
Tramping  along  with  a  weary  tread, 
And  wish  he  were  here  by  the  cheery  iire, 
Or  I  were  there  in  his  stead. 

I  sit  by  the  grate,  and  hark  for  his  step, 

And  stare  in  the  fire  with  a  troubled  mind; 
The  glow  of  the  coals  is  bright  in  my  face. 
But  my  shadow  is  dark  behind. 

I  think  of  woman,  and  think  of  man. 

The  tie  that  binds  and  the  wrongs  that  part, 
And  long  to  utter  in  burning  words 

What  I  feel  to-night  in  my  heart. 

No  weak  complaint  of  the  man  1  love, 

No  praise  of  myself,  or  my  sisterhood  ; 
But — something  that  women  understand — 
By  men  never  understood. 

Their  natures  jar  in  a  thousand  things  ; 

Little  matter,  alas,  who  is  right  or  wrong. 
She  goes  to  the  wall.     "  She  is  weak,"  they  say — 
It  is  that  which  makes  them  strong. 


WITHOUT  AND  wiTnix.  241 

Wherein  am  I  weaker  than  Arthur,  pray  ? 
He  has,  as  he  should,  a  sturdier  frame, 
And  he  labors  early  and  late  for  me, 
But  I — I  could  do  the  same. 

My  hands  are  willing,  my  brain  is  clear. 

The  world  is  wide,  and  the  workers  few; 
But  the  work  of  the  world  belongs  to  man. 
There  is  nothing  for  woman  to  do  ! 

Yes,  she  has  the  holy  duties  of  home, 

A  husband  to  love,  and  children  to  bear, 
The  softer  virtues,  the  social  arts, — 
In  short,  a  life  without  care  ! 

So  our  masters  say.     But  what  do  they  know 

Of  our  lives  and  feelings  when  they  are  away  ? 
Our  household  duties,  our  petty  tasks. 
The  nothings  that  waste  the  day  ? 

Nay,  what  do  they  care  ?     'Tis  enough  for  them 

That  their  homes  are  pleasant ;    they  seek  their  ease  : 
One  takes  a  wife  to  flatter  his  pride. 
Another  to  keep  his  keys. 

They  say  they  love  us  ;    perhaps  they  do. 

In  a  masculine  way,  as  they  love  their  wine  : 
But  the  soul  of  woman  needs  something  more. 
Or  it  suffers  at  times  like  mine. 

Not  that  Arthur  is  ever  unkind 

In  word  or  deed,  for  he  loves  me  well  ; 
But  I  fear  he  thinks  me  as  weak  as  the  rest — 
(And  I  may  be,  who  can  tell  ?) 
II 


242         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

I  should  die  if  he  changed,  or  loved  me  less, 

For  I  live  at  best  but  a  restless  life  ; 
Yet  he  may,  for  they  say  the  kindest  men 
Grow  tired  of  a  sickly  wife. 

O,  love  me,  Arthur,  my  lord,  my  life. 

If  not  for  my  love,  and  my  womanly  fears, 
At  least  for  your  child.     But  I  hear  his  step — 
He  must  not  find  me  in  tears. 


ON  THE  TOWN.    ■ 

The  lamps  are  lighted,  the  streets  are  full. 

For  coming  and  going  like  waves  of  the  sea, 
Thousands  are  out  this  beautiful  night  ; 

They  jostle  each  other,  but  shrink  from  me. 
Men  hurry  by  with  a  stealthy  glance. 

Women  pass  with  their  eyes  cast  down  ; 
Even  the  children  seem  to  know 

The  shameless  girl  of  the  town. 

Hated  and  shunned  I  walk  the  street. 

Hunting— for  what?     For  my  prey,  'tis  said; 
I  look  at  it,  though,  in  a  different  light. 

For  this  nightly  shame  is  my  daily  bread  : 
My  food,  my  shelter,  the  clothes  I  wear, 

Only  for  this  I  might  starve  or  drown  ; 
The  world  has  disowned  me — what  can  I  do 

But  live  and  die  on  the  town  ? 

The  world  is  cruel.     It  may  be  right 
To  crush  the  harlot,  but,  grant  it  so. 

What  made  her  the  guilty  thing  she  is? 
For  she  was  innocent  once,  you  know. 


ON   THE   TOWN.  243 

'Twas  love  !     That  terrible  word  tells  all. 

She  loved  a  man  and  blindly  believed 
His  vows,  his  kisses,  his  croco'dile  tears; 

Of  course  the  fool  was  deceived. 

What  had  I  to  gain  by  a  moment's  sin 

To  weigh  in  the  scale  with  my  innocent  years. 
My  womanly  shame,  my  ruined  name, 

My  father's  curses,  my  mother's  tears  ? 
The  love  of  a  man  !     It  was  something  to  give, 

Was  it  worth  it  ?     The  price  was  a  soul  paid  down, 
Did  I  get  a  soul,  Jiis  soul  in  exchange  ? 

Behold  me  here  on  the  town  ! 

"Your  guilt  was  heavy,"  the  world  will  say, 

"  And  heavy,  heavy  your  doom  must  be  ; 
For  to  pity  and  pardon  woman's  fall 

Is  to  set  no  value  on  chastity. 
You  undervalue  the  virgin's  crown, 

The  spotless  honor  that  makes  her  dear." 
But  I  ought  to  know  what  the  bauble  is  worth, 

When  the  loss  of  it  brings  me  here  ! 

But  pity  and  pardon  ?     Who  are  you 

To  talk  of  pardon,  pity,  to  me? 
What  I  ask  is  justice,  justice,  sir, 

Let  both  be  punished,  or  both  go  free. 
If  it  be  in  woman  a  dreadful  thing, 

What  is  it  in  man,  now  ?     Come,  be  just. 
(Remember,  she  falls  through  her  lo\-e  for  him, 

He  through  his  selfish  lust.) 

Tell  me  what  is  done  to  the  wretch 
Who  tempts  and  riots  in  woman's  fall  ? 

His  father  curses,  and  casts  him  off? 

His  friends  forsake  ?     He  is  scorned  of  all  ? 


244         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Not  he.     His  judges  are  men  like  himself, 

Or  thoughtless  women  who  humor  their  whim. 

"Young  blood,"  "Wild  oats,"  "Better  hush  it   up." 
They  soon  forget  it — in  him  ! 

Even  his  mother,  who  ought  to  know 

The  woman-nature,  and  how  it  is  won, 
Frames  a  thousand  excuses  for  him. 

Because,  forsooth,  the  man  is  her  son. 
You  have  daughters,  madam,  (he  told  me  so,) 

Fair,  innocent  daughters — "  Woman,  what  then  ?  " 
Some  mother  may  have  a  son  like  yours, 

Bid  them  beware  of  men ! 

I  saw  his  coach  in  the  street  to-day, 

Dashing  along  on  the  sunny  side. 
With  a  liveried  driver  on  the  box  : 

Lolling  back  in  her  listless  pride 
The  wife  of  his  bosom  took  the  air. 

She  was  bought  in  the  mart  where  hearts  are  6old  ; 
I  gave  myself  away  for  his  love, 

She  sold  herself  for  his  gold. 

He  lives,  they  say,  in  a  princely  way. 

Flattered  and  feasted.     One  dark  night 
Some  devil  led  me  to  pass  his  house. 

I  saw  the  windows  a  blaze  of  light ; 
The  music  whirled  in  a  maddening  round, 

I  heard  the  fall  of  the  dancers'  feet : 
Bitter,  bitter  the  thoughts  I  had, 

Standing  there  in  the  street. 

Back  to  my  gaudy  den  I  went. 

Marched  to  my  room  in  grim  despair, 

Dried  my  eyes,  painted  my  cheeks. 
And  fixed  a  flower  or  two  in  my  hair. 


ON   THE   TOWN.  245 

Corks  were  popping,  wine  was  flowing, 
I  seized  a  bumper,  and  tossed  it  down  : 

One  must  do  something  to  kill  the  time, 
And  fit  one's  self  for  the  town. 

I  meet  his  boy  in  the  park  sometimes. 

And  my  heart  runs  over  towards  the  child ; 
A  frank  little  fellow  with  fearless  eyes, 

He  smiles  at  me  as  his  father  smiled. 
I  hate  the  man,  but  I  love  the  boy, 

For  I  think  what  my  own,  had  he  lived,  would  be: 
Perhaps  it  is  he,  come  back  from  the  dead — 

To  his  father,  alas,  not  me  ! 

But  I  stand  too  long  in  the  shadow  here, 

Let  me  out  in  the  light  again. 
Now  for  insult,  blows,   perhaps. 

And  bitterer  still  my  own  disdain. 
I  take  my  place  in  the  crowded  street, 

Not  like  the  simple  women  I  see  : 
You  may  cheat  them,  men,  as  much  as  you  please, 

You  wear  no  masks  with  me. 

I  know  ye  !     Under  your  honeyed  words 

There  lurks  a  serpent;    your  oaths  are  lies. 
There's  a  lustful  fire  in  your  hungry  hearts, 

I  see  it  flaming  up  in  your  eyes  ! 
Cling  to  them,  ladies,  and  shrink  from  me. 

Or  rail  at  my  boldness.     Well,  have  you  done  ? 
Madam,  your  husband  knows  me  well, 

Mother,   1  know  your  son. 

But  go  your  ways,  and  I'll  go  mine  : 

Call  me  opprobrious  names  if  you  will ; 
The  truth  is  bitter,  think  I  have  lied  : 

"A  harlot?"     Yes,  but  a  woman  still. 


246  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

God  said  of  old  to  a  woman  like  me, 
"  Go,  sin  no  more,"  or  your  Bibles  lie. 

But  you,  you  mangle  his  merciful  words 
To  "Go,  and  sin  till  you  die!" 

Die  !     The  word  has  a  pleasant  sound, 

The  sweetest  I've  heard  this  many  a  year. 
It  seems  to  promise  an  end  to  pain, 

Anyway  it  will  end  it  here. 
Suppose  I  throw  myself  in  the  street  ? 

Before  the  horses  could  trample  me  down, 
Some  would-be  friend  might  snatch  me  up, 

And  thrust  me  back  on  the  town. 

But  look — the  river  !     From  where  I  stand 

I  see  it,  I  almost  hear  it  flow. 
Down  on  the  dark  and  lonely  pier — 

It  is  but  a  step — I  can  end  my  woe. 
A  plunge,  a  splash,  and  all  will  be  o'er, 

The  death-black  waters  will  drag  me  down ; 
God  knows  where  !     But  no  matter  where, 

So  I  am  off  the  town  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE. 

It  was  a  night  in  winter, 

Some  seventy  years  ago  ; 
The  bleak  and   barren  landscape 

Was  blurred  with  driving  snow. 

You  caught  a  glimpse  of  uplands, 
And  guessed  where  valleys  lay ; 

The  trees  were  broken  shadows, 
A  house  was  something  gray. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      247 

Only  the  western  forests 

Stood  sharply,  black  and  bare  ; 
For  there  the  blood-red  sunset 

Still  shot  a  sullen  glare. 

In  an  old  New  England  farm-house, 

That  snowy  winter  night, 
In  the  spacious  chimney  corner, 

Where  the  logs  were  blazing  bright, 

An  aged  man  was  sitting 

In  the  cherry  light  and  heat, 
With  his  head  upon  his  bosom, 

And  the  watch-dog  at  his  feet. 

Beside  him  sat  his  grandson. 

In  a  high-backed  oaken  chair. 
And  the  glow  of  ten  sweet  summers 

Was  golden  in  his  hair. 

The  man  was  Nathan  Baldwin, 

And  many  a  tale  is  told 
Of  how  he  marched,  and  suffered 

With  hunger  and  with  cold. 

Of  brave  old  Gran'ther  Baldwin 

Shall  be  the  song  I  sing, 
Who  fought  for  Independence 

When  George  the  Third  was  King. 

Before  him  hung  two  muskets, 

With  clumsy,  dinted  stocks, 
The  bayonets  were  mounted. 

The  flints  were  in  the  locks  ; 


248         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Two  rusty  Queen  Anne's  muskets, 
Whose  pans  were  smoky  still, 

The  spoil  of  British  soldiers 
Who  charged  at  Bunker  Hill. 

They  fell  by  Nathan's  rifle, 

He  snatched  their  dropping  guns. 

And  sent  them  to  the  farm-house 
To  arm  his  stalwart  sons. 

They  hung  against  the  chimney 
That  windy  winter  night. 

Unseen  by  Nathan  Baldwin, 
Who  saw  another  sight. 

He  sat  there  in  his  settle 
Before  the  dancing  flame, 

And  on  the  wall  behind  him 
His  shadow  went  and  came. 

He  dozed  behind  his  grandson, 

Whose  thoughts  were  on  the  snow, 

While  his  eyes  were  on  the  muskets. 
And  the  powder-horns  below. 

"Tell  me  a  story,  Gran'thcr," 

The  little  dreamer  said  ; 
But  Nathan  did  not  answer, 

Though  he  smoothed  his  curly  head. 

He  heard  the  shrill  winds  whistle, 

He  saw  the  embers  glow, 
And  dropping  down  the  chimney 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.     249 

The  sap  in  the  back-log  spluttered, 

And  through  the  puffs  of  smoke, 
Like  a  sharp  discharge  of  rifles, 

A  crackling  volley  broke. 

"  Tell  me  a  story,  Gran'ther. 

Not  that  of  Riding- Hood, 
Nor  how  the  robins  buried 

The  Children  in  the  Wood. 

"  But  how  you  fought  the  Indians, 

So  many  years  ago  ; 
Or  Valley  Forge  in  winter. 

And  all  about  the  snow." 

"  In  the  fall  of  seventy-seven 

(My  little  Abner,  hear,) 
In  the  middle  of  November 

Of  that  unhappy  year, 

I  marched  with  Morgan's  Rifles, 

A  corps  of  gallant  men, 
To  join  our  wretched  army 

In  the  Quaker  State  of  Penn. 

By  forced  and  rapid  marches, 

(We  took  the  shortest  way, 
A  crow-flight  through  the  Jerseys, 

And  added  night  to  day,) 

By  long  and  weary  marches 

We  crossed  the  dreary  plain  : 
The  winds  were  wild  with  winter. 

And  the  sky  was  dark  with  rain. 
11* 


250  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

There  was  no  sun  in  the  daytime, 
At  night  there  was  no  moon  : 

So  Morgan  told  the  fifer 
To  blow  a  merry  tune. 

Our  poor  old  regimentals 

Were  more  like  rags  than  clo'es  : 

Just  tit  to  flap  in  cornfields 
And  scare  away  the  crows. 

You  knew  our  halting-places 
By  the  tatters  lying  round. 

When  we  came  in  sight  of  White  Marsh 
Our  feet  were  on  the  ground. 

We  scarcely  saw  the  army 

That  cheered  as  we  drew  nigh  ; 

But  we  marched  with  flying  colors, 
And  our  powder,  boy,  was  dry  ! 

One  morning  in  December 

The  British  came  in  sight. 
Said  Morgan,   '  Load  your  rifles, 

For  here's  a  chance  to  fight.' 

Six  hundred  stout  militia. 

With  Irvine  at  their  head,         , 

Sneaked  out  to  take  a  volley — 
Of  course  the  cowards  fled ! 

Howe  changed  his  ground  at  midnight, 

For  at  the  break   of  day 
We  saw  that  he  was  nearer, 

Though  still  a  mile  away. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      25 1 

All  day  he  lay  and  watched  us, 

But  changed  again  at  night. 
When  morning  came  ('twas  Sunday) 

We  saw  he  meant  to  fight. 

*  Be  ready,  boys,'  said  Morgan, 

'  And  let  your  aim  be  true.' 
At  noon  the  word  was  ''Forward!'' 

And  then  the  bullets   flew." 

"  I  guess,"  said  Abner,  warming, 

"  You  showed  'em  how  to  fight." 
"  At  dusk  they  lighted  watch-fires. 

And  vanished  in  the  night. 

The  General  called  a  council 

To  meet  him  in  his  tent, 
And  choose  our  winter  quarters, 

And  all  the  generals  went. 

They  sat  with  maps  before  them, 

And  knit  their  brows  awhile  ; 
Some  thought  of  York  and  Reading, 

And  others  of  Carlisle. 

But  Washington  decided, 

When  all  had  spoken  round. 
That  Valley  Forge,  in  Chester, 

Should  be  our  winter  ground. 

We  heard  the  news  at  supper. 

And  said  'twas  time  to  go. 
For  winter  was  upon  us, 

And  the  sky  was  full  of  snow. 


252         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

So  when  the  dead  were  buried, 

Some  ninety  men  in  all, 
We  took  the  road  to  Chester, 

As  the  snows  began  to  fall. 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  us, 

That  dreary  winter  day, 
As  we  broke  up  our  encampment, 

And  stretched  for  miles  away. 

The  files  that  came  and  vanished, 
The  banners  on  the  wind, 

The  gallant  van  of  light-horse, 
The  rifles  close  behind. 

Then  Poor's  brigade,  and  Glover's, 
The  heavy  guns  of  Knox, 

The  train  of  baggage-wagons. 

And  the  teamsters  in  their  frocks, 

Climbing  the  whitened  hill-tops, 
And  swarming  on  the  plain  ; 

And  Washington  on  horseback. 
With  Harry  Lee  and  Wayne. 

We  crossed  a  wasted  country, 

With  a  farm-house  here  and  there  : 

No  smoke-wreaths  from  the  chimneys 
Went  curling  up  the  air. 

No  face  at  door  or  window 
Looked  out  as  we  passed  by ; 

But  through  the  battered  sashes 
We  saw  the  blank  of  sky. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      253 

We  pushed  ahead  till  nightfall 

Closed  round  our  straggling  lines, 
Then  halted  in  the  shelter 

Of  a  ragged  belt  of  pines. 

We  lighted  fires  of  brushwood, 

And  stacked  our  muskets  round ; 
The  teamsters  lent  us  fodder, 

And  we  spread  it  on  the  ground. 

'Twas  bitter,  bitter,  Abner, 

On  the  frozen  ground  to  lie. 
No  pillow  but  a  knapsack. 

No  blanket  but  the  sky  ! 

We  took  the  road  at  daybreak, 

In  the  blinding  snow  and  wind ; 
The  wounded  went  in  wagons. 

We  left  the  dead  behind. 

The  fifers  screamed  their  loudest, 

But  the  winds  alone  were  heard  ; 
The  drums  in  snow  were  muffled, 

And  no  man  spake  a  word. 

We  marched  in  gloomy  silence, 

A  sort  of  grim  despair, 
That  nerved  the  weak  to  suffer. 

And  fired  the  strong  to  dare. 

You  might  have  tracked  us,  Abner, 

By  the  trail  of  blood  we  shed  ; 
We  bled  at  every  footstep. 

The  snow  for  miles  was  red !  " 


254         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

"  O  Gran'ther  !  "  Abner  whispered, 
But  Gran'ther  did  not  speak, 

For  the  tears  of  eighty  winters 
Were  trickhng  down  his  cheek. 

The  tender  child  was  troubled, 

He  knew  not  what  to  say ; 
So  he  clambered  up  and  kissed  him. 

And  wiped  his  tears  away. 

"  On  the  seventeenth  of  December 
(The  day  was  still  and  bright) 

We  crossed  the  swollen  Schuylkill, 
With  Valley  Forge  in  sight. 

We  saw  the  smoke  of  the  forges, 

We  heard  the  anvils  ring ; 
You  should  have  seen  us,  Abner, 

And  hear  us  shout  and  sing. 

We  pitched  our  tents  by  the  river, 

In  a  row  along  the  street. 
Built  fires,  and  cooked  our  dinners. 

And  dressed  our  bleeding  feet. 

Some  sat  apart  with  their  muskets. 

Rubbing  the  rusty  stains  ; 
The  teamsters  stood  by  their  horses, 

And  combed  the  snow  from  their  manes. 

One  chopped  a  stack  of  brushwood, 

Another  blew  a  brand  ; 
I  fell  asleep  at  dinner. 

With  my  ration  in  my  hand. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE.      255 

The  next  clay  was  Thanksgiving, 

And  the  valley  bells  were  rung ; 
The  farmers  drove  to  meeting, 

And  a  goodly  psalm  was  sung. 

The  drummers  beat  the  roll-call. 

We  gathered  in  the  air  ; 
The  chaplain  preached  a  sermon, 

And  made  a  touching  prayer. 

Next  morning  we  were  stirring 

As  the  cocks  began  to  crow. 
With  our  shovels  on  our  shoulders, 

To  clear  away  the  snow. 

It  was  a  dreary  prospect, 

For  the  winds  were  sharp  and  cold, 
And  we  were  nearly  naked, 

And  some,  alas,  were  old. 

The  General  planned  our  village. 

The  streets  were  east  and  west. 
We  dug  the  snow  in  trenches, 

A  dozen  men  abreast. 

By  night  the  white  embankments 

Were  piled  above  our  heads. 
The  roads  were  black  with  soldiers, 

And  blocked  with  carts  and  sleds  ; 

With  ox-carts  of  provisions, 

With  sleds  of  wood  and  hay, 
And  officers  on  horseback 

That  slowly  cleared  the  way. 


256  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

And  in  the  windy  forest, 

Whose  moan  was  hke  the  sea's, 

We  heard  the  stroke  of  axes, 
And  the  crash  of  faUing  trees  ; 

The  lowing  of  the  oxen, 

That  hauled  the  timber  down  ; 

The  noise  of  saws  and  hammers, 
And  the  forges  in  the  town. 

Our  huts  were  built  by  Christmas, 
Rough  logs,  a  slab  the  door  ; 

The  cracks  with  clay  were  plastered, 
The  frozen  ground  the  floor. 

All  through  the  happy  valley 

The  Christmas  cheer  was  spread ; 

The  farmers  ate  their  turkeys, 
And  we  our  mouldy  bread. 

Well,  there  we  were  all  winter. 
Ten  thousand  men,  or  more. 

Ah,  how  can  I  remember, 
Or  speak  of  what  we  bore  ? 

The  stupor  that  benumbed  us, 
The  pains  that  drove  us  wild, 

The  hunger  and  the  sickness, 
The— all  but  death,  my  child  ! 

We  made  us  shoes  of  raw  hide, 
That  stung  our  tender  feet  ; 

We  limped  about  on  crutches. 
We  stumbled  in  the  street. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   VALLEY    FORCJE.  257 

I  had  a  burning  fever, 

I  had  a  freezing  chill, 
I  dreamed  of  killing  Indians, 

I  dreamed  of  Bunker  Hill. 


One  night,  when  I  was  better 
The  guard  was  ordered  out 

In  front  of  Varnum's  quarters, 
Before  the  Star  Redoubt. 

I  thought  I  heard  them  call  me, 

(It  was  my  turn  to  go,) 
So  I  snatched  a  hat  and  musket, 

And  hobbled  through  the  snow. 

Along  the  grim  abatis 

That  faced  the  windy  street, 
To  where  the  gloomy  forest 

And  swollen  river  meet. 

Along  the  roaring  river, 
Beyond  the  narrow  ford, 

Till  near  the  outer  picket — 
When  all  at  once  I  heard 

The  General's  voice.     I  harkened, 
And  through  the  darkness  broke 

His  tall,  commanding  figure, 
Wrapt  in  a  martial  cloak. 

'  Good  evening,  Nathan  Baldwin. 

I'm  glad  to  see  you  out.' 
'  It  is  my  night  on  guard,  sir, 

Before  the  Star  Redoubt.' 


258  THE   BOOK    OF   THE   EAST. 

And  he  :   'Did  Morgan  send  you  ? 

The  snow  is  drifted  there.' 
I  felt  he  saw  my  tatters, 

And  pitied  my  gray  hair. 

'  I'll  do  my  duty,  General.'  " 
"  What  did  the  General  say?" 

"  He  threw  his  cloak  about  me, 
And  slowly  walked  away. 

'  God  bless  you,  sir  !  '  I  shouted, 

And  as  I  strode   along 
I  laughed  and  cried  together, 

And  hummed  a  battle-song. 

I  felt  my  way  before  me. 

It  was  too  dark  to  see, 
I  floundered  in  a  snow-drift, 

I  ran  against  a  tree. 

The  March  winds,  sharp  and  cruel, 
Their  stormy  trumpets  blew  ; 

Came  charging  down  the  hillsides, 

And  stabbed  me  through  and  through. 

I  heard  the  drums  in  the  distance, 

I  heard  the  river  roar, 
I  heard  the  wolves  in  the  forests, 

And  then  I  heard  no  more. 

I  woke  in  your  father's  barrack, 

I  was  lying  in  his  bed  ; 
He  stood  beside  me  crying. 

Because  he  thought  me  dead. 


THE   BALLAD    OF   VALLEY    FORGE.  259 

15ut  hark,   I  hear  him  coming, 

And  mother's  drawing  the  tea ; 
His  step  is  on  the  scraper, 

Run  to  the  door,  and  see." 

The  outside  latch  was  Uftcd, 

A  draught  blew  in  the  room  ; 
They  heard  him  calling  "Mother!" 

And  "  Abner,  fetch  a  broom." 

He  stamped  his  feet  in  the  entry. 

And  brushed  his  homespun  clo'es. 
"  Well,  boys."    "  Good  evening,  Reuben. 

What  news  to-night?"    "It  snows!" 

The  dog  barked,  Abner  tittered, 

But  Gran'ther  shook  his  head. 
Now  mother  brought  the  candles, 

And  the  table  soon  was  spread  : 

With  the  dishes  on  the  dresser, 

The  loaf  of  wheat  and  rye, 
The  baked  beans  from  the  oven, 

And  a  royal  pumpkin-pie. 

"  Draw  up,  we're  ready,  Reuben." 

"  But  where  did  Abner  go  ?  " 
With  Gran'ther's  crutch  for  a  musket. 

He  was  marching  sad  and  slow, 
Freezing  in  thought  at  midnight, 

At  Valley  Forge  in  the  snow. 


26o         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


THE   WINE-CUP. 

Lycius,  the  Cretan  Prince,  of  race  divine, 
Like  many  a  royal  youth  was  fond  of  wine  ; 
So  when  his  father  died  and  left  him  King, 
He  spent  his  days  and  nights  in  revelling. 
Show  him  a  wine-cup,  he  would  soon  lay  down 
His  sceptre,  and  for  roses  change  his  crown, 
Neglectful  of  his  people  and  his  state, 
The  noble  cares  that  make  a  monarch  great. 

One  day  in  summer,  so  the  story  goes, 

Among  his  seeming  friends,  but  secret  foes. 

He  sat,  and  drained  the  wine-cup,  when  there  came 

A  gray-haired  man,   and  called  him  by  his  name, 

"  Lycius  !  "     It  was  his  tutor,  Philocles, 

Who  held  him  when  a  child  upon  his  knees. 

"Lycius,"  the  old  man  said,  "  it  suits  not  you 

To  waste  your  life  among  this  drunken  crew. 

Bethink  you  of  your  sire,  and  how  he  died 

For  that  bright  sceptre  lying  by  your  side. 

And  of  the  blood  your  loving  people  shed 

To  keep  that  golden  circlet  on  your  head. 

Ah,  how  have  you  repaid  them?"     "Philocles," 

The  Prince  replied,  "  what  idle  words  are  these  ? 

I  loved  my  father,  and  I  mourned  his  fate  ; 

But  death  must  come  to  all  men,  soon  or  late. 

Could  we  recall  our  dear  ones  from  their  urn. 

Just  as  they  lived  and  loved,  't  were  well  to  mourn  ; 

But  since  we  cannot,  let  us  smile  instead  : 

I  hold  the  living  better  than  the  dead. 

My  father  reigned  and  died  :   I  live  and  reign. 

As  for  my  people,  why  should  they  complain? 


THE   WINE-CUP.  261 

Have  I   not  ended  all  their  deadly  wars, 

Bound  up  their  wounds,  and  honored  their  old  scars  ? 

They  bleed  no  more  ;   enough  for  me,   and  mine. 

The  blood  o'  th'  grape,   the  ripe,   the  royal  wine. 

Slaves,  fill  my  cup  again  !  "     They  filled  and  crowned 

His  brow  with  roses,  but  the  old  man  frowned. 

"  Lycius,"  he  said  once  more,   "  the  State  demands 

Something  besides  the  wine-cup  in  your  hands  ; 

Resume  your  crown  and  sceptre,  be  not  blind. 

Kings  live  not  for  themselves,  but  for  mankind." 

"  Good  Philocles,"  the  Prince,  ashamed,  replied, 

His  soft  eye  lighting  with  a  flash  of  pride, 

"  Your  wisdom  has  forgotten  one  small  thing, 

I  am  no  more  your  pupil  but  your  King. 

Kings  are  in  place  of  Gods  ;   remember,  then, 

They  answer  to  the  Gods,  and  not  to  men." 

"  Hear,  then,   the  Gods,  who  speak  to-day  through  me, 

The  sad  but  certain  words  of  prophecy  : 

'  Touch  not  the  cup  ;  small  sins  in  Kings  arc  great  ; 

Be  wise  in  time,  nor  further  tempt  your  fate.'  " 

"  Old  man,  there  is  no  Fate,  save  that  which  lies 

In  our  own  hands  that  shape  our  destinies. 

It  is  a  dream.     If  I  should  will  and  do 

A  deed  of  ill,  no  good  could  thence  ensue  ; 

And,  willing  goodness,  should  not  goodness  be 

Sovereign,  like  ill,  to  save  herself,  and  me  ? 

I  laugh  at  Fate."     The  wise  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Remember  what  the  oracles  have  said  : 

'  What  most  he  loves,  who  rules  this  Cretan  land, 

Shall  perish  by  the  wine-cup  in  his  hand.'  " 

"  Prophet  of  ill,  no  more,  or  you  shall  die  ! 

See  how  my  deeds  shall  give  your  words  the  lie, 

And  baffle  Fate,  and  all  who  hate  me — so  !  " 


262  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

Sheer  through  the  casement,  in  the  court  below, 

He  dashed  the  half-drained  goblet  in  disdain, 

That  scattered,  as  it  flew,  a  bloody  rain. 

His  courtiers  laughed.     But  now  a  woman's  shriek 

Rose  terrible  without,  and  blanched  his  cheek. 

He  hurried  to  the  casement  in  a  fright. 

And  lo,  his  eyes  were  blasted  with  a  sight 

Too  pitiful  to  think  of — death  was  there. 

And  wringing  hands,  and  madness,  and  despair. 

There  stood  a  nurse,  and  on  her  bosom  lay 

A  dying  child,  whose  life-blood  streamed  away, 

Reddening  its  robe  like  wine.     It  was  his  own. 

His  son — the  Prince  that  should  have  filled  the  throne 

When  he  was  dead,  and  ruled  the  Cretan  land, 

Slain  by  the  wine-cup  from  his  father's  hand ! 


THE    KING'S    SENTINEL. 

Upon  a  time,  unbidden,  came  a  man 

Before  the  mighty  King  of  Teberistan. 

When  the   King  saw  this  daring  man  he  cried, 

"Who  art  thou,  fellow?"     Wliereto  he  replied, 

"A  lion-hunter  and  swordsman,   1, 

Moreover,   I  am  skilled  in  archery  : 

A  famous  bowman,  who  of  men  alone 

Can  drive  his  arrows  through  the  hardest  stone. 

Besides  my  courage,  tried  in  desperate  wars, 

I  know  to  read  the  riddle  of  the  stars. 

First  in  the  service  of  Emeer  Khojend, 

Who,  friend  to  none,  has  none  to  be  his  friend. 

Him  have  1  left,  I  hope  an  honest  man, 

To  serve,  if  so  he  wills,  the  Lord  of  Teberistan." 

To  whom  in  answer  :    "I  have  men  enow, 


THE   KlNg'S   SENTINEL.  263 

Stalwart  like  thcc,  apt  with  the  sword  and  bow  ; 

These  no  King  lacks,  or  need  to  :    what  we  need 

Are  men  who  may  be  trusted — word  and  deed, 

Who,  to  keep  pain  from  us,  would  yield  their  breath, 

Faithful  in  life,  and  faithfuller  in  death." 

"  Try  me."     As  thrice  the  monarch  claps  his  hands, 

The  Captain  of  the  Guard  before  him  stands, 

Amazed  that  one,  unknown  of  him,  had  come 

In  to  the  King,  and  fearful  of  his  doom. 

Sternly  his  lord  :    "  You  guard  me,  slave,  so  well 

That  I  have  made  this  man  my  sentinel." 

Thus  did  the  happy  archer  gain  his  end, 

And  thus  his  sovereign  find  at  last  a  friend, 

Who  from  that  hour  was  to  his  service  bound, 

Keen  as  his  hawk,  and  faithful  as  his  hound. 

Now  when  a  moon  of  nights  had  ta'en  its  flight. 
Amid  the  darkness  of  a  summer  night, 
The  King  awoke,  alarmed,  with  fluttering  breath. 
Like  one  who  struggles  in  the  toils  of  death. 
And  wandered  to  his  lattice,  which  stood  wide, 
Whence,  down  below  him  in  the  court,  he  spied 
A  shadowy  figure  with  a  threatening  spear. 
"What  man  art  thou?  if  man,  and  wherefore  here?" 
"  Your  sentinel,  and  servant,  O  my  lord  !  " 
"  Harken."     They  did.     And  now  a  voice  was  heard, 
But  whether  from  the  desert  far  away. 
Or  from  the  neighbor-garden,  who  could  say  ? 
So  far  it  was,  yet  near,  so  loud,  yet  low. 
"Who  calls?"  it  said.     It  sighed,  '' I  go,  I  go .' " 
Then  spake  the  pallid  King,  in  trouble  sore, 
"  Have  you  this  dreadful  summons  heard  before?" 
"  That  voice,  or  something  like  it,  have  I  heard 
(Perchance  the  wailing  of  some  magic  bird) 
Three  nights,  and  at  this  very  hour,  O  King  ! 


264         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

But  could  not  quit  my  post  to  seek  the  thing. 

But  now,  if  you  command  me,   I  will  try, 

Where  the  sound  was,  to  find  the  mystery." 

"  Go,  follow  where  it  leads,  if  anywhere, 

And  what  it  is,  and  means,  to  me  declare. 

It  may  be  ill,  but  I  will  hope  the  best  : 

But  haste,  for  I  am  weary,  and  must  rest." 

Softly,  as  one  that  would  surprise  a  thief, 

Who  might  detect  the  rustling  of  a  leaf, 

The  sentinel  stole  out  into  the  night. 

Nor  knew  that  the  King  kept  him  still  in  sight, 

Behind  him,  with  a  blanket  o'er  his  head. 

Black-draped  down  to  his  feet,  as  he  were  dead  ; 

But  the  spear  trembled  in  his  hands,  his  knees 

Weakened  ;  at  length  he  sank  beneath  the  trees. 

Again  the  \oice  was  heard,  and  now  more  near 

Than  when  it  faded  last — it  was  so  clear. 

'•^  I  go  !      What  man  will  force  me  to  return?'''' 

"  Now,"  thought  the  wondering  soldier,  "  I  shall  learn 

Who  speaks,  and  why."     And,  looking  up,  he  saw 

What  filled  his  simple  soul  with  love  and  awe, 

A  noble  woman  standing  by  his  side, 

Who  might  have  been  the  widow  or  the  bride 

Of  some  great  King,  so  much  of  joy  and  woe 

Hung  on  the  perfect  lips  that  breathed  "  I  go," 

Shone  in  the  wondering  eyes,  dimmed  the  bright  hair, 

No  woman,  born  of  woman,  half  so  fair. 

"Most  beautiful,  who  art  thou?"     "Know,  O  man, 

I  am  his  life,  who  rules  in  Teberistan, 

The  spirit  of  your  lord,  whose  end  is  nigh. 

Except  some  friend, — what  friend  ?  for  him  will  die." 

"Can  I?"     But  she:   " 'Tis  written  you  must  live." 

"  What,  then,  my  life  rejected,  can  I  give?" 

"  You  ha\  e  a  son,"  she  whispered  in  his  ear. 

Feeling  her  way,  it  seemed,  in  hope  and  fear, 


THE   king's   sentinel.  265 

Lest  what  she  would  demand  should  be  denied. 

He  pressed  a  sudden  hand  against  his  side 

Where  his  heart  ached,  but  spake  not.    "  Fetch  your  son, 

And  I  remain  ;  refuse,  and  I  am  gone 

Even  while  we  parley."     Stifling  the  great  sigh 

That  heaved  his  breast,  he  answered,  "  He  shall  die." 

And  now  for  the  first  time  he  was  aware 

Besides  themselves  there  was  a  Presence  there, 

Which  made  his  blood  run  cold,  but  did  not  shake 

His  resolution  that,  for  the  King's  sake, 

His  boy  must  perish.     So  he  said,  "  I  go," 

And  like  the  swiftest  arrow  from  his  bow 

The  phantom  vanished,  and  he  went  to  bring 

His  sleeping  child  as  ransom  for  the  King, 

Leaving  that  strange,  bright  woman  there  alone  ; 

Who,  smiling  sadly,  soon  as  he  was  gone 

Ran  to  her  lord,  fallen  upon  the  ground  ; 

And  while  she  lifted  his  dead  weight,  and  wound 

Her  arms  around  him,  and  her  tears  did  rain. 

Kissed  his  cold  lips,  until  they  kissed  her  own  again  i 

Meanwhile  the  sentinel  down  the  royal  park 
Groped  his  way  homeward,  stumbling  in  the  dark, 
L'ncertain  of  himself  and  all  about ; 
For  the  low  branches  were  as  hands  thrust  out, 
Hut  whether  to  urge  faster,  or  delay. 

Since  they  both  clutched  and  pushed,  he  could  not  say  ; 
Nor,  so  irregular  his  heart's  wild  beat. 
Whether  he  ran,  or  dragged  his  lagging  feet. 
When,  half  a  league  being  over,  he  was  near 
His  poor,  mean  hut,  there  broke  upon  his  ear, 
As  from  a  child  who  wakes  in  dreams  of  pain, 
And,  while  its  parents  listen,  sleeps  again, 
A  cry  like  Father !     Whence,  and  whose,  the  cry? 
Was  it  from  out  the  hut,  or  in  the  sky  ? 
12 


266         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

What  if  some  robber  with  the  boy  had  fled  ? 

What — dreadful  thought !  what  if  the  boy  were  dead  ? 

He  reached  the  door  in  haste,  and  found  it  barred, 

As  when  at  set  of  sun  he  went  on  guard, 

Shutting  the  lad  in  from  all  nightly  harms, 

As  safe  as  in  the  loving  mother  arms 

Which  could  no  longer  fold  him  :   all  was  fast, 

No  footstep  since  his  own  that  night  had  passed 

Across  the  threshold,  no  man  had  been  there. 

'Twas  still  within,  and  cold,  and  dark,  and  bare  ; 

Bare,  but  not  dark  ;   for,  opening  now  the  door, 

The  fitful  moon,  late  hidden,  out  once  more 

Thrust  its  sharp  crescent  through  the  starless  gloom 

Like  a  long  scymetar,   and  smote  the  room 

With  pitiless  brightness,  and  himself  with  dread, 

Poor,  childless  man — for  there  his  child  was  dead  ! 

He  spake  not,  wept  not,  stirred  not ;  one  might  say, 

Till  that  first  awful  moment  passed  away. 

He  was  not,  but  some  dead  man  in  his  place 

Stood,   with  a  deathless  sorrow  in  its    face  ! 

Then — for  a  heart  so  stricken  as  was  his. 

So  suddenly  set  upon  by  agonies, 

Must  find  as  sudden  a  relief,  or  break — 

He  wept  a  little  for  his  own  sad  sake, 

And  for  the  boy  that  lay  there  without  breath, 

Whom  he  so  freely  sacrificed  to  Death. 

Thereafter  kneeling  softly  by  the  bed, 

Face  buried,  and  hands  wrung  above  his  head, 

He  said  what  prayer  came  to  him,  and  be  sure 

The  prayers  of  all  men  at  such  times  are  pure. 

At  last  he  rose,  and  lifting  to  his  heart 

Its  precious  burden — limbs  that  dropped  apart, 

Hands  that  no  longer  clasped  him,  little  feet 

That  nevermore  would   run  his  own  to  meet, 

Wrapping  his  cloak  round  all  with  loving  care, 


THE  BALLAD  OF  CRECV.         267 

To  shield  it  from  the  dew  and  the  cold  air, 

He  staggered  slowly  out  in  the  black  night. 

Nowhere  was  that  strange  woman  now  in  sight 

To  take  the  child  ;   but  at  the  palace  gate 

The  king  stood  waiting  him — reprieved  of  Fate. 

"What  was  it,  soldier?"     "God  preserve  the  Kin;^! 

'Twas  nothing."     "  Tell  me,  quickly."     "  A  small  thin;;, 

Not  worth  your  hearing.      In  the  park  I  found 

A  lonely  woman  sitting  on  the  ground, 

Wailing  her  husband,  who  had  done  her  wrong, 

Whose  house  she  had  forsaken,  but  not  long ; 

For  I  made  peace  between  them,  dried  the  tears, 

And  added  some,   I  hope,   to  their  now  happy  years." 

"  \Vhat  bear  you  there?"     "A  child  I  was  to  bring — '' 

He  paused  a  moment — "It  is  mine,  O  King!" 

"  I  followed,  and  know  all.     So  young  to  die, 

Poor  thing,  for  me  !     You  should  be   King,  not  I. 

You  shall  be  my  Vizier,  shake  not  your  head, 

I  swear  it  shall  be  so.     Be  comforted. 

For  this  dead  child  of  yours,  who  met  my  doom, 

I  will  have  built  for  him  a  costly  tomb 

Of  divers  marbles,  glorious  to  behold, 

With  many  a  rich  device  inlaid  of  gold, 

Ivory  and  precious  stones,  and  thereupon 

Blazoned  the  name  and  story  of  your  son, 

And  yours,  Vizier,  of  whom  shall  history  tell 

That  never  Kinjr  but  one  had  such  a  Sentinel." 


THE   BALLAD    OF   CRECY. 

What  man-at-arms,  or  knight 
Of  doughty  deeds  in  fight, 
What  King  whose  dauntless  might 
Still  lives  in  story, 


268         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Deserves  such  fame  as  one 
Who,  when  his  sight  was  gone, 
Fought  till  he  fell— King  John, 
Bohemia's  glory  ? 

That  fatal  August  day 

The  French  and  English  lay 

Drawn  up  in  dread  array, 

With  bows  and  lances. 
Determined  then  to  try 
Which  host  could  bravest  die, 
W^hich  host  would  soonest  fly, 

England's  or  France's. 

The  morning  light  revealed 

On  Crecy's  famous  field. 

Armed  with  his  spear  and  shield. 

This  fearless  foeman. 
Who,  with  his  old  blind  eyes, 
Will  for  his  French  allies 
Do  battle  till  he  dies, 

And  fly  from  no  man. 

His  bridle  rein  he  tied 

To  a  good  knight's  at  his  side, 

Among  the  French  to  ride. 

That  saw  astounded 
Who  with  their  foremost  pressed, 
His  shield  before  his  breast, 
His  long  spear  set  in  rest — 

The  trumpet  sounded ! 

Full  tilt  against  their  foes. 
Where  thickest  fell  the  blows, 
And  war  cries  mingling  rose, 

"5/.  George  r'  ''St.  Dcnys . 


THE   BALLAD    OF   CRECY.  269 

Driven  by  ihc  trumpet's  blare 
Where  most  the  English  dare, 
And  where  the  French  despair, 

He  there  and  then  is. 

LTp,  down,  he  rode,   and  thrust, 
Unhorsed,  knights  rolled  in  the  dust, 
Whom  he  encounters  must 

Go  down  or  fly  him  : 
All  round  the  bloody  field 
Spears  rattle  on  his  shield. 
But  none  can  make  him  yield  ; 

Few  venture  nigh  him. 

Here,  there,  he  rides  until 
His  horse  perforce  stands  still  : 
He  spurs  it,   but  it  will 

No  longer  mind   him  ; 
It  cannot  stir  for  fright, 
So  desperate  now  the  fight, 
Death  on  the  left,  the  right. 

Before,  behind  him. 

But  this,  so  blind  was  he. 
The  old  King  could  not  see  ; 
An  he  had  seen,  pardie  ! 

His  soul  delighting 
Had  faster  rained  down  blows 
Upon  his  puny  foes, 
And  in  the  dark  death-throes 

Had  gone  out  fighting  ! 

When  the  last  rout  was  done, 
And  when  the  English  won, 
They  found  the  brave  King  John, 

Who  fought  so  lately, 


270         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Stone  dead,  his  old  blind  eyes 
Up-looking  to  the  skies, 
As  he  again  would  rise, 

And  battle  greatly! 

They  bore  him  to  his  rest, 
His  shield  upon  his  breast, 
Where  blazoned  was  his  crest. 

Three  ostrich  feathers  ; 
Under,  in  gold,  was  seen 
The  royal  words,  "  ICH  DiEN," 
Which  most  Kings  now  think  mean, 

Save  in  foul  weathers. 

Not  so  the  Black  Prince  thought, 
W^ho  then  at  Crecy  fought. 
And  old  John's  valor  caught. 

And  was  victorious. 
"  Who  serve  like  him,"  quoth  he, 
"  Commend  themselves  to  me  ; 
Such  royal  servants  be 

Forever  glorious !  " 


ROME. 

'■'■  Roma^  Roma,  Roma! 
Non  e pill  come  era  prima." 

Still  the  City  stands  : 
Fallen  away 
From  its  old  renown. 
The  wonder  and  the  terror  of  the  Lands  ! 
Temple  and  tower  gone  down, 


ROME.  271 

Nothing  left  to  fall 

But  weeds  upon  the  wall ; 

All  decay — 
Utterly  desolate  ! 
Haunted  by  the  ghost  of  its  dead  state, 
Memory  of  its  men  who  ruled  like  gods, 
Memory  of  the  gods  who  ruled  its  men, 
Dreaming  in  despair  of  what  was  then, 
Flamens,  augurs,  lictors  with  their  rods. 
Legions  on  their  marches 
Through  triumphal  arches, 

Cassar  in  his  car 
With  the  spoils  of  war. 
From  Carthage,  from  Egypt,  from  all  the  realms  afar. 
And,  drooping  in  his  train, 
Proud  Kings  overthrown. 
Their  sceptres  now  his  own. 
And  palest  Queens  discrowned,  superb  in  their  disdain 
Of  Caesar  marching  home 
Victorious  to  Rome  ! 
Who  on  her  Seven  Hills 
Sits,  Mistress  of  the  World 

Which  she  with  carnage  fills  ; 
Hated  of  men,  but  to  the  gods  austere 

Dear, 
For  does  not  mightiest  Jove  protect,  defend, 

And  his  eagle  send 
To  perch  upon  her  standards  ?     Look  above, 
There  where  his  million  altar-smokes  are  curled — 
The  Capitolian  Jove  ! 
And  Mars,  Mars, 
He  of  the  shield  and  spear — 
How  dear 
To  him  and  his  this  Rome  of  never-ending  wars ! 
Hidden  in  the  secret  shrine, 


2/2         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

(Stately  Juno,  come  not  here, 
Chaste  Diana,  disappear, 
These  are  none  of  thine,) 
Where  they  wreathe  the  roses, 

Where  they  pour  the  wine, 
Who  on  that  couch  reposes. 

With  arms  that  twine  and  twine  ? 
Venus  Aphrodite, 

Goddess  of  the  Sea, 
She  is  the  most  mighty. 
And  the  sweetest,  she. 
Venus,  Venus,  Venus! 
Thou  alone  of  all  the  Powers 

Dost  from  sorrow  screen   us, 
Thy  power  alone  in  all  the  hours 
Lets  nothing  come  between  us, 
Who  adore  thee,  Venus  ! 
Nothing  part 
Heart  from  heart 
In  thy  bliss  of  blisses. 
But  our  delaying  kisses  ! 

Horror  !     Who  are  these  ? 
Shapes,  or  shadows  rather. 
Which  like  the  Night  do  gather. 

From  where  ?     For  what  ?     To  seize  ! 
The  Fates  !     The  Fates  ! 
The  Hun  is  at  the  gates  ! 

Still  the  City  stands  : 

Fallen  away 
From  its  old  renown. 
The  wonder  and  the  terror  of  the  Lands  ! 
Temple  and  tower  gone  down, 


C^SAR.  273 


Nothing  left  to  fall 
But  weeds  upon  the  wall ; 
All  decay — 
Utterly  desolate  ! 


C^SAR. 

"  Bender,  therefore,  unto  Casar  the  things  which  are  Casar's: 

CiESAR  is  fallen  !     Shout  ! 
Shout  that  his  sword  is  broken,  lost  his  crown  ! 
Shout  that  his  braggart  hosts  are  put  to  rout ! 

His  empire  has  gone  down  ! 

Exult  as  wildly  as  ye  would  have  wailed 

If  Caesar  had  prevailed  ! 

That  yesterday  you  feared  him, 

Whom  you  to-day  despise, 

Forget,  deny  ; 

But  be  no  more  deceived  by  kingly  lies. 

For  what  he  was  to  all  your  kings  endeared  him, 
As  what  they  are  finds  favor  in  your  eyes. 
Ah,  why,  why 
For  such  as  these,  and  he,  will  ye  still  live  and  die  ? 

Be  just — just ! 
What  has  he  done  your  rulers  would  not  do  ? 

What  do  they  care  for  you. 
Ye  peoples,  who  in  princes  put  your  trust  ? 
What  has  he  done,  I  say,  they  have  not  done  ? 

Made  blood  like  water  run 
In  the  dense  streets  his  dread/ul  cannon  swept, 
Where  France  above  her  slaughtered  children  wepl  ? 
It  is  a  way  they  have  who  wear  the  crown, 
12* 


2/4        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Your  good  king  shot  his  loving  subjects  down; 
But,  though  submissive,  brave, 
They  gathered  up  their  dead. 
And,  while  they  bore  them  to  their  honored  grave. 
Compelled  him  to  look  on  with  white,  uncovered  head  I 
If  this,  our  Ccesar,  strode  through  guilt  to  power, 
If  in  the  blood  he  spilt  he  built  his  throne, 

He  did  not  stand  alone. 
For  France  was  with  him  in  that  desperate  hour  ; 
F"or  though  she  might  not  welcome  the  strong  hand 
That  steered  her  suddenly  from  the  dangerous  shore. 
Whereon,  full  driven,  she  had  been  wrecked  before, 
And  brought  her  safe  to  land, 
She  let  the  helm  w-ithin  his  hand  remain  ; 
For  rent  by  furious  factions, 
And  weary  of  distractions, 
She  wanted  peace  again, 
Demanded  peace,  the  wealth  that  she  had  lost, 
And  her  old  greatness,  at  whatever  cost. 

Remember  what  he  found  her. 
And  what  she  was  when  her  first  CjEsar  fell. 
With  Europe  armed  around  her, 
And  none  to  wish  her  well ; 
How  with  their  bayonets  dripping  with  her  blood. 
Its  kings  brought  back  the  kings  who  had  oppressed  her. 
But  never  once  redressed  her. 
And  all  pronounced  it  good  ! 
Too  weak,  they  felt,  to  chain 
Her  giant  limbs  again. 
That  with  the  world  had  wrestled,  and  might  yet, 
They  drugged  her  till  she  slept, 
And  then  upon  her  crept, 
And  o'er  her  cast  a  net. 
She  struggled,  but  in  vain; 
But  she  did  not  forget. 


CAESAR.  275 

And  he  did  not  forget  ! 
And  when,  a  stormy  wooer, 
That  would  no  longer  sue  her, 

He  leaped  into  her  arms, 
It  was  that  he  might  free  her, 
And  that  the  world  might  see  her 
In  her  recovered  charms. 
No  trace  of  tears,  no  fear  of  tribulations, 
Most  beautiful  and  powerful,  the  queen  of  all  the  nations  ! 
This  her  Ccesar  made  her, 
And  this  at  last  betrayed  her, 
For  this  has  brought  upon  her  the  conquering  Invader  ! 

CfEsar  is  fallen  !     Shout ! 
Shout  till  your  throats  are  hoarse,  and  stunned  your  ears, 
Fire  your  loud  cannon,  hang  your  banners  out. 

But  leave  me  to  my  tears. 
Not  o'er  this  fallen  Cajsar  do  I  weep, 

Nor  for  the  thousands  whom  to  death  he  led, 
Nor  for  your  thousands  in  the  same  dark  sleep, 

I  weep  not  for  the  dead. 
I  weep  for  the  unutterable  blindness 

That  makes  a  Citsar  possible  to-day, 
That  will  not  let  the  nations  live  in  kindness, 

And  die  the  natural  way. 
What  though  ye  have  one  CjEsar  overthrown  ? 
Ye  have  set  up  another  of  your  own. 
What  is  it,  pray,  to  us  ? 

What  is  it  to  the  Race, 
Whether  the  Gaul  or  Pruss, 
The  Latin  or  the  Kuss, 
Is  now  in  Caesar's  place  ? 
It  matters  not  a  jot. 
They  love  us— love  us  not! 
They  trust  us,  when  they  must, 


2/6  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

They  use  us,  when  they  will, 
They  grind  us  to  the  dust. 

They  cheat,  they  rob,  they  kill ! 
Exult  who  may.     For  me,  I  must  deplore, 
I  must  lament,  and  pray 
That  God  will  bring  the  day 

When  Caesar  is  no  more  I 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

A    HORATIAN    ODE. 

Not  as  when  some  great  Captain  falls 
In  battle,  where  his  Country  calls, 
Beyond  the  struggling  lines 
That  push  his  dread  designs 

To  doom,  by  some  stray  ball  struck  dead 
Or,  in  the  last  charge,  at  the  head 
Of  his  determined  men. 
Who  must  be  victors  then. 

Nor  as  when  sink  the  civic  great, 

The  safer  pillars  of  the  State, 

Whose  calm,  mature,  wise  words 
Suppress  the  need  of  swords. 

With  no  such  tears  as  e'er  were  shed 

Above  the  noblest  of  our  dead 
Do  we  to-day  deplore 
The  Man  that  is  no  more. 


ABRAHAM    l,INCOLN.  2/7 

Our  sorrow  hath  a  wider  scope, 

Too  strange  for  fear,  too  vast  for  hope, 

A  wonder,  bUnd  and  dumb, 

That  waits — what  is  to  come  ! 

Not  more  astounded  had  we  been 
If  Madness,  that  dark  night,  unseen. 

Had  in  our  chambers  crept, 

And  murdered  while  we  slept ! 

We  woke  to  find  a  mourning  earth, 
Our  Lares  shivered  on  the  hearth, 

The  roof-tree  fallen,  all 

That  could  affright,  appall ! 

Such  thunderbolts,   in  other  lands. 
Have  smitten  the  rod  from  royal  hands. 

But  spared,  with  us,  till  now, 

Each  laurelled  Ceesar's  brow. 

No  Caesar  he  whom  we  lament, 
A  Man  without  a  precedent, 

Sent,  it  would  seem,  to  do 

His  work,  and  perish,  too. 

Not  by  the  weary  cares  of  State, 

The  endless  tasks,  which  will  not  wait, 

Which,  often  done  in  vain. 

Must  yet  be  done  again  : 

Not  in  the  dark,  wild  tide  of  war. 
Which  rose  so  high,  and  rolled  so  far. 

Sweeping  from  sea  to  sea 

In  awful  anarchy  : 


2/8         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Four  fateful  years  of  mortal  strife, 
Which  slowly  drained  the  nation's  life, 
(Yet  for  each  drop  that  ran 
There  sprang  an  armed  man  !) 

Not  then  ;  but  when,  by  measures  meet. 

By  victory,  and  by  defeat, 

By  courage,  patience,  skill. 
The  people's  fixed  ^^IVe  ivill !  " 

Had  pierced,  had  crushed  Rebellion  dead. 
Without  a  hand,  without  a  head, 

At  last,  when  all  was  well, 

He  fell,  O  how  he  fell ! 

The  time,  the  place,  the  stealing  shape. 
The  coward  shot,  the  swift  escape, 

The  wife,  the  widow's  scream — 

It  is  a  hideous  Dream ! 

A  dream  ?     What  means  this  pageant,  then  ? 

These  multitudes  of  solemn  men, 

Who  speak  not  when   they  meet, 
But  throng  the  silent  street  ? 

The  flags  half-mast  that  late  so  high 

Flaunted  at  each  new  victory  ? 

(The  stars  no  brightness  shed. 
But  bloody  looks  the  red !) 

The  black  festoons  that  stretch  for  miles, 
And  turn  the  streets  to  funeral  aisles? 
(No  house  too  poor  to  show 
The  nation's  badge  of  woe.) 


ABRAHAM   LLN'COLN.  279 

The  cannon's  sudden,  sullen  boom, 
The  bells  that  toll  of  death  and  doom, 

The  rolling  of  the  drums, 

The  dreadful  car  that  comes? 

Cursed  be  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
The  frenzied  brain  that  hatched  the  plot, 

Thy  country's  Father  slain 

Be  thee,  thou  worse  than  Cain  ! 

Tyrants  have  fallen  by  such  as  thou, 
And  good  hath  followed — may  it  now  ! 

(God  lets  bad  instruments 

Produce  the  best  events.) 

But  he,  the  man  we  mourn  to-day, 
No  tyrant  was  :  so  mild  a  sway 

In  one  such  weight  who  bore 

Was  never  known  before. 

Cool  should  he  be,  of  balanced  powers, 
The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours. 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild, 

The  Man  to  guide  the  Child. 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit,) 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place. 

With  such  a  homely  face. 

Such  rustic  manners,  speech  uncouth, 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth,) 

Untried,  untrained  to  bear 

The  more  than  kingly  care. 


280         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Ay  !     And  his  genius  put  to  scorn 
The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 
Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew. 

The  People,  of  whom  he  was  one. 

No  gentleman,  like  Washington, 

(Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  room. 
To  have  him  in  their  tomb  I) 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands, 

Who  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  his  lands. 

Who  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do. 

One  of  the  People !     Born  to  be 

Their  curious  epitome  ; 

To  share  yet  rise  above 
Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind,  (it  seemed  so  then,) 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men  : 
Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor. 
But  now  they  will  endure ! 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will. 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant  still  ; 

Who  since  his  work  was  good 

Would  do  it  as  he  could. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt. 
And,  lacking  prescience,  w-ent  without  : 
Often  appeared  to  halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault; 


ABRAHAM   LINCOLN.  28l 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loath, 
And,  loving  both  sides,  angered  both  : 

Was — not  like  Justice,  blind. 

But,  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

No  hero  this  of  Roman  mould, 
Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old  : 

Perhaps  he  was  not  great, 

But  he  preserved  the  State  ! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew  ! 
O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few ! 

O  wonder  of  the  age. 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage  ! 

Peace  !     Let  the  long  procession  come, 
For  hark,  the  mournful,  muffled  drum, 

The  trumpet's  wail  afar, 

And  see,  the  awful  car ! 

Peace !     Let  the  sad  procession  go, 
While  cannon  boom  and  bells  toll  slow. 

And  go,  thou  sacred  car. 

Bearing  our  woe  afar  ! 

Go,  darkly  borne,  from  State  to  State, 
Whose  loyal,  sorrowing  cities  wait 

To  honor  all  they  can 

The  dust  of  that  good  man. 

Go,  grandly  borne,  with  such  a  train 
As  greatest  kings  might  die  to  gain. 

The  just,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

Attend  thee  to  the  grave. 


282  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

And  you,  the  soldiers  of  our  wars, 
Bronzed  veterans,  grim  with  noble  scars, 
Salute  him  once  again, 
Your  late  commander — slain  ! 

Yes,  let  your  tears  indignant  fall, 
But  leave  your  muskets  on  the  wall  ; 
Your  country  needs  you  now 
Beside  the  forge — the  plough. 

(When  Justice  shall  unsheathe  her  brand, 
If  Mercy  may  not  stay  her  hand, 
Nor  would  we  have  it  so, 
She  must  direct  the  blow.) 

And  you,  amid  the  master-race, 
Who  seem  so  strangely  out  of  place, 
Know  ye  who  cometh?     He 
Who  hath  declared  ye  free. 

Bow  while  the  body  passes — nay, 
Fall  on  your  knees,  and  weep,  and  pray  ! 
Weep,  weep — I  would  yc  might— 
Your  poor  black  faces  white  ! 

And,  children,  you  must  come  in  bands, 
With  garlands  in  your  little  hands, 
Of  blue  and  white  and  red, 
To  strew  before  the  dead. 

So  sweetly,  sadly,  sternly  goes 
The  Fallen  to  his  last  repose. 

Beneath  no  mighty  dome, 
But  in  his  modest  home  ; 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   ISIS.  283 

The  churchyard  where  his  children  rest, 
The  quiet  spot  that  suits  him  best, 

There  shall  his  grave  be  made, 

And  there  his  bones  be  laid. 

And  there  his  countrymen  shall  come, 
With  memory  proud,  with  pity  dumb. 

And  strangers  far  and  near, 

For  many  and  many  a  year. 

For  many  a  year  and  many  an  age, 
While  History  on  her  ample  page 

The  virtues  shall  enroll 

On  that  Paternal  Soul. 


THE   CHILDREN    OF    ISIS. 

Typhon  and  Osiris 

Children  were  of  Isis, 
Brothers  and  Gods,  twin-born,  the  rulers  of  her  land. 

Which  prospered,  nothing  loth. 
Under  both. 
For  each  the  sceptre  held  with  equal  hand. 

Now  Typhon  and  Osiris 

With  their  great  Mother,  Isis, 
Dwelt, — in  the  cities  one,  and  one  in  the  broad  plains, 

Whereon  a  subject  race, 
Dusk  of  face, 
Was  bondsman  unto  him  in  ancient  chains. 

Said  Typhon  once  to  Isis  : 
"This  brother  mine,   Osiris, 


284         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Does  wrong  to  keep  this  people  so  long  beneath  his  yoke. 
They  fetch  him  corn  and  oil, 
For  him  they  toil, 
While  idle  all  the  year  he  sits."     So  Typhon  spoke. 

To  Typhon  then  spake  Isis  : 

"  My  son  he  is,  Osiris, 
As  thou  my  son,  both  loved,  but  neither  less  nor  more. 

If  his  these  bondsmen  born, 
Their  oil  and  corn — 
Who  built  your  palaces  that  line  the  shore  ? 

If  not  the  tribe,"  said  Isis, 

"  That  labors  for  Osiris, 
Barbaric,  a  much  better,  as  nearer  Us  than  these. 

All  day  they  turn  your  wheels. 
And  your  proud  keels 
They  lay,  and  plough  for  you  the  dangerous  Seas. 

Typhon  and  Osiris," 

Said  the  sad  goddess  Isis, 
"  Children  of  mine,  unnatural,  unwise  as  men, — no  more  ! 

Let  each  still  fill  his  throne, 
And  rule  his  own  : 
There  must  be  peace  between  you  as  before." 

To  Typhon  and  Osiris 

The  solemn  voice  of  Isis 
Was  as  a  wind  unheeded — no  sooner  come  than  gone. 

Speaking  their  own  rash  words, 
They  drew  their  swords, 
And,  calling  each  his  millions,  led  them  on. 

"  O  Typhon!   O  Osiris  !" 
Cried  out  their  Mother  Isis, 


THE    CHW:.DREN    OF   ISIS.  285 

But   neither   heard    her   warning,  for    each    with    desperate 
hand 
Struck  at  the  other's  heart, 
No  one  could  part ; 
So  war  and  waste  and  want  were  in  the  land. 

In  all  the  years  of  Isis 

And  Typhon  and  Osiris 
Never  such  dreadful  battle,  such  courage,  such  despair  ; 

Brothers  with  brothers  fighting, 
In  blood  delighting. 
Razed  cities,  temples  sacked,  death  everywhere  ! 

So  Typhon  and  Osiris 
Before  the  troubled  Isis 
Fought  four  dark   years    together,  each   bloodier    than    the 
last, 
Till  stronger  Typhon's  swords 
And  cunning  words 
Prevailed,  and  pale  Osiris  fell  aghast. 

Then  Typhon  slew  Osiris 

Before  the  weeping  Isis, 
And  after  he  was  dead  by  night  the  body  stole  ; 

Whereat  who  followed  him 
Limb  from  limb 
Dismembered — hoping  so  to  slay  the  soul. 

Thus  Typhon  rent  Osiris, 

To  the  great  grief  of  Isis, 
And  thus  his  mangled  body  was  scattered  through  the  land. 

One  had  his  crowned  head. 
And  one  instead 
His  swordless  hand — but  rings  were  on  the  hand. 


286         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

So  Typhon  hid  Osiris 
Away  from  sorrowing  Isis, 
Who  straight  began  her  journeys,  North,  South,  and  East, 
and  West. 
O  Mother  most  undone  ! 
Where  is  thy  Son  ? 
Where  the  Dead  One  whose  tomb  is  in  thy  breast? 

Up  and  down  went  Isis 

Where  Typhon  and  Osiris 
Had  dwelt  before  their  trouble,  the  cities  and  the  plains  ; 

But  in  no  pyramid 
His  bones  were  hid, 
Nor  where  his  bondsmen  wept — without  their  chains. 

To  and  fro  went  Isis 

To  find  the  dead  Osiris, 
Along  her  one  great  river,  and  over  all  the  land. 

She  could  not  find  his  head. 
Nor  crown  instead. 
His  hand,  nor  the  rich  rings  were  on  his  hand ! 

The  spirit  of  Osiris 

Came  in  a  dream  to  Isis, 
Saying,  "  O  mighty  Goddess  !  Why  is  your  heart  so  sore  ? 

Why  do' you  weep  so,   jNIother  ? 
Because  my  brother, 
Typhon,  has  hid  my  body?     Weep  no  more. 

Immortal  Mother,  Isis, 
/  am  thy  Son  Osiris, 
Twin-born, — the    king   with    Typhon,  who    rules    the    land 
alone. 
His  men  have  statues  made 
Where  I  am  laid, 
A  piece  of  me  in  each,  one  by  his  throne." 


THE    CHILDREN    OF    ISIS.  28/ 

She  woke,  the  wiser  Isis, 

To  seek  and  find  Osiris, 
And  found,  as  he  had  promised,  the  idols  tall  and  grim, 

His  shape  in  every  place, 
With  Typhon's  face  ! 
But  was  Osiris  there  ?     A  piece  of  him. 

After  her  dear  Osiris 

The  stern  and  wrathful   Isis 
Before  the  men  of  T\phon,  who  trembled  at  her  ire, 

Strode  up  and  down  the  lands, 
With  her  strong  hands 
Their  idols  brake,  and  cast  them  in  the  fire. 

And  now  his  Mother,  Isis, 

The  limbs  of  lost  Osiris 
Found — in  every  statue  of  him  some  precious  part ; 

His  head  by  Typhon's  throne  ; 
Beneath  a  stone 
His  hand  ;  elsewhere,  and  last  of  all,  his  heart ! 

The  body  of  Osiris 

His  Goddess-Mother,   Isis, 
Laid  reverent  on  her  altar,  and  bowed  her  sacred  head  ; 

Prayed  to  some  Power  Unknown, 
Some  awful  Throne, 
Then  rose  and  kissed  the  cold  lips  of  her  dead. 

The  soul  of  great  Osiris 
Came  back  again  to  Isis  ; 
The  mouth  with  breath    is  warm,  and  dares  to  touch   her 
own  ; 
He  stretches  out  his  hands  ; 
He  stands — stands  ! 
He  is  himself  once  more,  and  on  his  throne. 


288         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

"Eternal  Mother,  Isis," 
Began  the  God  Osiris, 
"Where  is  my  brother  Typhon  ?  "     And  Typhon,  "I  am 
here." 
He  wept,  "O  brother!  brother! 
O  Mother  !  Mother  !  " 
And  Isis  wept — Osiris  not  a  tear. 

"  Typhon,"  said  Osiris, 

"And  thou,  our  Mother  Isis, 
What  was  the  wrong  among  us  ?     But  righted  if  it  be, 

(It  must  be,)  name  it  not, 
It  is  forgot 
By  Typhon  and  Osiris,  and,  mightiest  Isis,  Thee  I  " 


"  Why  stand  ye  gazing  up  into  heaven  ?  " 

Acts  i.  \i. 

Why  stand  ye  gazing  into  Heaven  ? 

What  seek  ye  there  ?     What  hope  to  find 
Besides  the  clouds,  which  the  cold  wind 
Drives  round  the  world  from  Morn  to  Even  ? 
The  wan  moon,  ploughed  with  ancient  scars, 
The  gracious  sun,  the  alien  stars, 
The  all-embracing   Space  ? 
Ye  look  for   God  ? 
Have  ye  beheld  him  there  ? 
You,  or  your  fathers  in  their  prime  ? 
Or  any  man,  at  any  time, 

The  wise,  the  good,  the  fair  ? 
Who  has  beheld — I  will  not  say  his  face, 
But  where  his  feet  have  trod  ? 


"WHY   STAND    YE   GAZING."  289 

What  have  your  straining  eyes 
Discovered  in  the  skies  ? 

Why  not  look  down  the  Sea  ? 
'Tis  deep,  and  most  creative  ;  What  eludes 
In  the  upper  solitudes, 
Still  lurking  in  the  lower  wastes  may  be. 
Ye  look  for  God,  ye  tell  me.     Tell  me  this — 

How  know  ye  that    He  is  ? 
Because  your  fathers  told  ye  so,  and  they 
Because,  of  old,  their  fathers  told  them  so  ; 
As  it  is  now,  so  was  it  long  ago, 
And  will  be  when  the  years  have  passed  away. 

Nothing  can  come  from  nothing.     Well,  what  then? 

The  Earth,  with  all  its  men, 
The  little  insect  burrowing  in  the  sod, 
Sun,  planet,  star, 
All  things  that  are. 
Must  have  been  made  by  God. 
Why  made  by  Him  ?     Who  saw  them  made  ? 
Who  saw  the  deep  foundations  laid  ? 

The  Hands  that  built  the  wall  ? 
Why  made  at  all  ? 
Why  not  Eternal,  tell  me  ?     Not  because 
It  must  created  be  : 
If  so  Eternal  He, 
But  why  Eternal  ? — why  not  also  This  ? 

Why  must  the  AH  be  His  ? 
It  was,  and  is,  and  is — because  it  was ! 

There  is  no   God  then  ?     Nay, 
You  say  it,  and  not  I  ; 
I  do  but  say 
We  have  not  yet  beheld  this  God  on  High: 
Not  knowing  that  He  is,  we  live  and  die. 


290         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

If  we  know  nothing  of  Him,  yet  we  feel. 
We  feel  love's  kisses  sweet, 
The  wine  that  trips  our  feet, 
The  murderous  thrust  of  steel  : 
Gladness  about  the  heart  when  the  sun  breaks, 
■    Or  the  soft  moon  is  floating  up  the  skies. 
Delight  in  the  wild  sea,  in  tranquil  lakes, 
In  every  bird  that  flies  ; 
And  hot  tears  in  our  eyes, 
When  love,  the  best  of  earth,  its  last  kiss  over— dies  ! 
But  He  whom  we  name  God,  and  grope  so  for  above. 
Whose  arm,  we  fear,  is  Power,  whose  heart,  we   hope,  is 
Love, 
On  the  worlds  below  Him, 
In  the  dust  before  Him, 
We  may  adore  Him, 
We  cannot  know  Him, 
If,  indeed.  He  be,  to  bless  or  curse. 
And  be  not  this  tremendous  Universe ! 

"  Higher  than  your  arrows  fly, 
Deeper  than  your  plummets  fall, 

Is  the  Deepest,  the  Most  High, 
Is  the  All  in  All ! " 


WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 

{April  zi,  1564.) 

She  sat  in  her  eternal  house, 

The  sovereign  mother  of  mankind  ; 

Before  her  was  the   peopled  world, 
The  hollow  night  behind. 


WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE.  291 

"  Below  my  feet  the  thunders  break, 

Above  my  head  the  stars  rejoice  ; 
But  man,  although  he  babbles  much, 

Has  never  found  a  voice. 

Ten  thousand  years  have  come  and  gone, 

And  not  an  hour  of  any  day 
But  he  has  dumbly  looked  to  me 

The  things  he  could  not  say. 

It  shall  be  so  no  more,"  she  said. 

And  then,  revolving  in  her  mind, 
She  thought  :  "  I  will  create  a  child 

Shall  speak  for  all  his  kind." 

It  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year. 

And  lo,  where  Avon's  waters  flow, 
The  child,  her  darling,  came  on  earth 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

There  was  no  portent  in  the  sky, 

No  cry,  like  Pan's,  along  the  seas, 
Nor  hovered  round  his  baby  mouth 

The  swarm  of  classic  bees. 

What  other  children  were  he  v/as, 

If  more,  't  was  not  to  mortal  ken ; 
The  being  likest  to  mankind 

Made  him  the  man  of  men. 

They  gossiped,  after  he  was  dead. 

An  idle  tale  of  stealing  deer ; 
One  thinks  he  was  a  lawyer's  clerk ; 

But  nothing  now  is  clear. 


292         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Save  that  he  married,  in  his  youth, 
A  maid,  his  elder  ;  went  to  town  ; 

Wrote  plays  ;  made  money  ;  and  at  last 
Came  back,  and  settled  down, 

A  prosperous  man,  among  his  kin, 
In  Stratford,  where  his  bones  repose. 

And  this — what  can  be  less  ?  is  all 
The  world  of  Shakespeare  knows. 

It  irks  us  that  we  know  no  more, 

For  where  we  love  we  would  know  all  ; 

What  would  be  small  in  common  men 
In  great  is  never  small. 

Their  daily  habits,  how  they  looked. 
The  color  of  their  eyes  and  hair. 

Their  prayers,  their  oaths,  the  wine  they  drank, 
The  clothes  they  used  to  wear. 

Trifles  like  these  declare  the  men. 

And  should  survive  them— nay,  they  must  ; 

We'll  find  them  somewhere ;  if  it  needs, 
We'll  rake  among  their  dust ! 

Not  Shakespeare's  !     He  hath  left  his  curse 

On  him  disturbs  it  :  let  it  rest, 
The  mightiest  that  ever  Death 

Laid  in  the  earth's  dark  breast. 

Not  to  himself  did  he  belong, 

Nor  does  his  life  belong  to  us  ; 
Enough  he  was ;  give  up  the  search 

If  he  were  thus,  or  thus. 


WILLIAM    SHAKESPEARE.  293 

Before  he  came  his  like  was  not, 

Nor  left  he  heirs  to  share  his  powers  ; 

The  mighty  Mother  sent  him  here, 
To  be  her  voice  and  ours. 

To  be  her  oracle  to  man  ; 

To  be  what  man  may  be  to  her  ; 
Between  the  Maker  and  the  made 

The  best  interpreter. 

The  hearts  of  all  men  beat  in  his, 

Alike  in  pleasure  and  in  pain  ; 
And  he  contained  their  myriad  minds, 

Mankind  in  heart  and  brain. 

Shakespeare  !     What  shapes  are  conjured  up 
By  that  one  word  !     They  come  and  go, 

More  real,  shadows  though  they  be, 
Than  many  a  man  we  know. 

Hamlet,  the  Dane,  unhappy  Prince 

Who  most  enjoys  when  suffering  most  : 

His  soul  is  haunted  by  itself — 
There  needs  no  other  Ghost. 

The  Thane,  whose  murderous  fancy  sees 

The  dagger  painted  in  the  air ; 
The  guilty  King,  who  stands  appalled 

When  Banquo  fills  his  chair. 

Lear  in  the  tempest,  old  and  crazed, 

"Blow  winds.     Spit  fire,  singe  my  white  head  ! '- 
Or,  sadder,  watching  for  the  breath 

Of  dear  Cordelia — dead  ! 


294  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

The  much-abused,  relentless  Jew, 
Grave  Prospero,  in  his  magic  isle. 

And  she  who  captived  Anthony, 
The  serpent  of  old  Nile. 

Imperial  forms,  heroic  souls, 

Greek,  Roman,  masters  of  the  world, 

Kings,  queens,  the  soldier,  scholar,  priest. 
The  courtier,  sleek  and  curled  ; 

He  knew  and  drew  all  ranks  of  men. 
And  did  such  life  to  them  impart 

They  grow  not  old,  immortal  types. 
The  lords  of  Life  and  Art ! 

Their  sovereign  he,  as  she  was  his. 

The  awful  Mother  of  the  Race, 
Who,  hid  from  all  her  children's  eyes. 

Unveiled  to  him  her  face  ; 

Spake  to  him  till  her  speech  was  known. 
Through  him  till  man  had  learned  it ;  then 

Enthroned  him  in  her  Heavenly  House, 
The  most  Supreme  of  Men  ! 


ADSUM. 
{December  23-24,  1863.) 

I. 

The  Angel  came  by  night, 

(Such  angels  still  come  down,) 

And  like  a  winter  cloud 
Passed  over  London  town  ; 


ADSUM.  295 

Along  its  lonesome  streets, 

Where  Want  had  ceased  to  weep, 
Until  it  reached  a  house 

Where  a  great  man  lay  asleep  : 
The  man  of  all  his  time 

Who  knew  the  most  of  men, 
The  soundest  head  and  heart, 

The  sharpest,  kindest  pen. 
It  paused  beside  his  bed. 

And  whispered  in  his  ear ; 
He  never  turned  his  head. 

But  answered,  "  I  am  here." 

II. 

Into  the  night  they  went. 

At  morning,  side  by  side. 
They  gained  the  sacred  Place 

Where  the  greatest  Dead  abide. 
Where  grand,  old  Homer  sits 

In  godlike  state  benign  ; 
Where  broods  in  endless  thought 

The  awful  Florentine  ; 
Where  sweet  Cervantes  walks, 

A  smile  on  his  grave  face  ; 
Where  gossips  quaint  Montaigne, 

The  wisest  of  his  race  ; 
Where  Goethe  looks  through  all 

With  that  calm  eye  of  his ; 
Where — little  seen  but  Light — 

The  only  Shakespeare  is ! 
When  the  new  Spirit  came, 

They  asked  him,  drawing  near, 
"  Art  thou  become  like  us  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  I  am  here." 


296         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

VATES    PATRI^. 

{November  3 ,  1 794 . ) 

There  came  a  Woman  in  the  night, 

When  winds  were  whist,  and  moonlight  smiled. 
Where  in  his  mother's  arms,  who  slept, 
There  lay  a  new-born  child. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  loving  looks, 

And  while  her  hand  upon  his  head 
She  laid,  in  blessing  and  in  power. 
In  slow,  deep  words  she  said  : 

"This  child  is  mine.     Of  all  my  sons 

Are  none  like  what  the  lad  shall  be  ; 
Though  these  are  wise,  and  those  are  strong. 
And  all  are  dear  to  me. 

Beyond  their  arts  of  peace  and  war 

The  gift  that  unto  him  belongs, 
To  see  my  face,  to  read  my  thoughts, 
To  learn  my  silent  songs. 

The  elder  sisters  of  my  race 

Shall  taunt  no  more  that  I  am  dumb  ; 
Hereafter  I  shall  sing  through  him, 
In  ages  yet  to  come." 

She  stooped,  and  kissed  his  baby  mouth, 

Whence  came  a  breath  of  melody, 
As  from  the  closed  leaves  of  a  rose 
The  murmur  of  a  bee. 


VATES   PATRLE.  297 

Thus  did  she  consecrate  the  child, 

His  more  than  mother  from  that  hour, 
Albeit  at  first  he  knew  her  not, 

Nor  guessed  his  sleeping  power. 

But  not  the  less  she  hovered  near, 
And  touched  his  spirit  unawares  ; 
Burned  in  the  red  of  morning  skies. 
And  breathed  in  evening  airs. 

Unfelt  in  his,  her  guiding  hand 

Withdrew  him  from  the  halls  of  men. 
To  where  her  secret  bowers  were  built, 
In  wood,  and  grove,  and  glen. 

Sometimes  he  caught  a  transient   glimpse 

Of  her  broad  robe,  that  swept  before, 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  ancient  woods, 
Or  by  the  sounding  shore. 

One  prosperous  day  he  chanced  to  see 

(Be  sure  't  was  in  a  lonely  place) 
Her  glance  of  pride,  that  sought  his  own. 
At  last  her  noble  face. 

Not  as  it  fronts  her  children  now. 

With  clouded  brows,  and  looks  of  ire, 
And  eyes  that  would  be  blind  with  tears 
But  for  their  quenchless  fire ! 

But  happy,  gracious,  beautiful, 

And  more  imperial  than  a  queen  ; 
A  Woman  of  majestic  mould. 
And  most  maternal  mien. 
13* 


298  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

And  he  was  happy.     For  in  her 

("For  he,"  she  said,  "shall  read  my  mind,") 
He  saw  the  glory  of  the  earth, 
The  hope  of  human  kind. 

Thenceforth,  wherever  he  might  walk. 

Through  forest  aisles,  or  by  the  sea ; 
Where  floats  the  flower-like  butterfly, 
And  hums  the  drowsy  bee  ; 

By  rock-ribbed  hills,  and  pensive  vales 

That  stretch  in  light  and  shade  between, 
And  by  the  soft-complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  : 

He  felt  her  presence  everywhere. 

To-day  was  glad,  to-morrow  grave  ; 
And  what  she  gave  to  him  in  thought, 
To  us  in  song  he  gave  : 

In  stately  songs,  in  solemn  hymns, 

(Few  are  so  clear,  and  none  so  high,) 
That  mirrored  her,  in  calm  and  storm. 
As  mountain  lakes  the  sky. 

And  evermore  one  shape  appeared. 

To  comfort  now,  and  now  command, 
A  bearded  Man,  with  many  scars, 
Who  bore  a  battle-brand. 

And  she  was  filled  with  serious  joy. 

To  know  her  poet  followed  him  ; 
Not  losing  heart,  nor  bating  hope, 
When  others'  faith  was  dim. 


AT   GADSHILL.  299 

And  as  the  years  went  slowly  by, 

And  she  grew  stronger  and  more  wise, 
Stretching  her  hands  o'er  broader  lands, 
And  grander  destinies  ; 

And  he,  our  poet,  poured  his  hymns, 

Serene,  prophetic,  sad,  as  each 
Became  a  part  of  her  renown, 
And  of  his  native  speech  ; 

She  wove,  by  turns,  a  wreath  for  him. 

The  business  of  her  idle  hours  ; 
And  here  were  sprigs  of  mountain  pine, 
And  there  were  prairie  flowers. 

And  now,  even  in  her  sorest  need. 

Pale,  bleeding,  faint  in  every  limb, 
She  still  remembers  what  he  is, 
And  comes  to  honor  him. 

For  hers,  not  ours,  the  songs  we  bring, 

-The  flowers,  the  music,  and  the  light; 
And  'tis  her  hand  that  lays  the  wreath 
On  his  gray  head  to-night ! 


AT  GADSHILL. 

(June  9,  1870.) 

GADSHILL  is  famous.  What  of  old 
To  the  world's  poet  made  it  dear. 

Whether  what  country  gossips  told. 
Or  stolen  hours  of  cheer 


300         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Spent  there  with  men  of  kindred  mind, 
Less,  yet  the  largest  of  mankind, 

We  know  not,  and  we  need  not  care  : 

Enough  that  Shakespeare  loved  the  place, 

And  settled  in  possession  there 
The  merriest  of  his  race, 

FalstafT,  whose  thirsty  spirit  still 

Haunts  all  the  taverns  at  Gadshill. 

Could  Shakespeare,  with  prophetic  eyes, 
Who  were  to  follow  him  have  seen, 

And  be,  if  not  so  great  and  wise. 
As  what  man  since  hath  been  ? 

Yet  wise  and  great  in  smaller  ways, 

The  lords  of  life  of  coming  days, 

He  would  have  chosen  out  of  all 
Dickens,  as  knowing,  loving  men, 

And  let  on  him  the  mantle  fall 
That  was  to  vanish  then  ! 

Long  lost,  late  found,  now  lost  once  more — 

Ah,  who  that  mantle  shall  restore  ? 

Sacred  to  all  but  Shakespeare's  shade, 
And  to  his  ghosts  of  crownless  kings 

Abandoned,  wretched  queens  betrayed. 
And  high,  heroic  things. 

Is  Stratford  ;  let  no  mortal  dare 

Disturb  its  hushed  and  reverent  air. 

But  Gadshill,  whither  Falstaff  went 

From  Eastcheap,  (glad  to  hasten  back,) 

Though  plundered,  still  on  plunder  bent, 
Puffed  out  with  lies  and  sack, 


AT   GADSHILL.  3OI 

What  spot  of  English  earth  so  fit 

For  one  with  more  than  Falstaff's  wit  ? 

Nay,  Shakespeare's  self  was  not  his  peer 

In  that  humane  and  happy  art 
To  wake  at  once  the  smile  and  tear, 

And  captive  hold  the  heart. 
Make  room,  then,  Shakespeare  !  This  is  he 
Has  taken  the  throne  of  mirth  from  thee. 

The  world  of  kings  and  queens  is  thine, 
Thou  hast  the  soldier's,  scholar's  ear, 

England  and  Rome,  Greece,  "  Troy  divine," 
Hamlet,  Othello,  Lear  : 

Small  elves  that  dance  on  yellow  sands, 

And  all  the  spells  of  fairy  lands. 

This  common  work-day  world  of  ours. 

Our  little  lives  of  joy  and  care, 
Green  lanes,  where  children  gather  flowers. 

And  London's  murky  air. 
Thieves,  paupers,  women  of  the  town. 
And  the  black  Thames  in  which  they  drown  ; 

These  were  the  things  that  Dickens  knew, 
Before  his  sight  like  dreams  they  passed. 

If  saddened,  he  was  gladdened,  too. 
For  sorrow  should  not  last. 

Happy  must  be  his  heart  and  mind 

Whose  task  it  is  to  help  his  kind. 

Healthy  his  nature  was,  above 

All  shallow  griefs  and  sympathies ; 
What  others  hated  he  could  love, 

And  what  they  loved  despise. 


302  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

His  mirth  was  harder  to  be  borne 

Than  Thackeray's  sadness,  Byron's  scorn. 

He  taught  the  virtues,  first  and  last. 

He  taught  us  manhood,  more  and  more, 

The  simple  courage  that  stands  fast. 
The  patience  of  the  poor  ; 

Love  for  all  creatures,  great  and  small, 

And  trust  in  Something  over  all. 

This  gave  him  more  than  royal  sway  ; 

The  benefactor  of  the  race, 
He  would  have  wiped  with  smiles  away 

The  tears  from  every  face. 
They  drop  to-day  from  many  an  eye, 
He  draws  them,  but  he  cannot  dry. 

The  hand  is  still  that  held  his  pen. 
His  eyes  are  shut,  but  not  in  sleep  ; 

Weeping  around  his  bed  are  men 
Who  do  not  often  weep. 

Laughter  no  more  the  house  shall  fill. 

For  Death  is  master  at  Gadshill. 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE. 

Not  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must, 

Makes  up  the  sum  of  living  ; 
Heaven  is  both  more  and  less  than  just 

In  taking  and  in  giving. 
Swords  cleave  to  hands  that  sought  the  plough, 
And  laurels  miss  the  soldier's  brow. 


THE   COUNTRY   LIFE.  303 

Me,  whom  the  city  holds,  whose  feet 

Have  worn  its  stony  highways, 
FamiHar  with  its  lonehest  street — 

Its  ways  were  never  my  ways. 
My  cradle  was  beside  the  sea. 
And  there,  I  hope,  my  grave  will  be. 

Old  homestead!     In  that  old,  gray  town, 

Thy  vane  is  seaward  blowing. 
Thy  slip  of  garden  stretches  down 

To  where  the  tide  is  flowing : 
Below  they  lie,  their  sails  all  furled, 
The  ships  that  go  about  the  world. 

Dearer  that  little  country  house, 

Inland,  with  pines  beside  it  ; 
Some  peach-trees,  with  unfruitful  boughs, 

A  well,  with  weeds  to  hide  it  : 
No  flowers,  or  only  such  as  rise 
Self-sown,  poor  things,  which  all  despise. 

Dear  country  home  !    Can  I  forget 

The  least  of  thy  sweet  trifles  ? 
The  window-vines  that  clamber  yet, 

Whose  blooms  the  bee  still  rifles  ? 
The  roadside  blackberries,  growing  ripe, 
And  in  the  woods  the  Indian  Pipe  ? 

Happy  the  man  who  tills  his  field, 

Content  with  rustic  labor  ; 
Earth  does  to  him  her  fulness  yield. 

Hap  what  may  to  his  neighbor. 
Well  days,  sound  nights,  O  can  there  be 
A  life  more  rational  and  free  ? 


304         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Dear  country  life  of  child  and  man  ! 

For  both  the  best,  the  strongest, 
That  with  the  earliest  race  began. 

And  hast  outlived  the  longest. 
Their  cities  perished  long  ago  ; 
Who  the  first  farmers  were  we  know. 

Perhaps  our  Babels  too  will  fall, 

If  so,  no  lamentations. 
For  Mother  Earth  will  shelter  all, 

And  feed  the  unborn  nations ; 
Yes,  and  the  swords  that  menace  now 
Will  then  be  beaten  to  the  plough. 


AN    INVOCATION. 


BEFORE  THE   SHRINE. 

What  and  whence  this  life  of  ours  ? 

Is  it  Life,  and  Death  at  last  ? 

Or  a  dream  that  binds  us  fast 
In  the  heavy  midnight  hours  ? 

Shadow  of  a  vanished  day. 

Or  a  coming,  gone  astray 
In  the  sleep  of  the  High  Powers  ? 

Great  Ones,  surely,  such  ye  be, 

Hear,  and,  hearing,  answer  me. 

Answer  me,  O  answer  me  ! 

{Wide  their  lips  were,  and  their  eyes. 
That  benignant  looked,  and  7vise ; 
But,  false  or  true,  no  anszuer  fell. 
Silent  was  the  Oraele.) 


A    CATCH.  305 

11. 
BEFORE   THE   STATUE   OF    ISIS. 

And  this  dread  thing  which  men  call  Death  ? 

Like  but  longer  than  all  Sleep, 

Shrouded  eyes,  that  fail  to  weep, 
Lips  that  kiss  not,  without  breath, 

Feet  that  run  no  more  to  ill, 

Hands  that  nor  caress,  nor  kill  ! 

Tell  me,  is  it  something  done  ? 

Or,  sadder,  something  more  begun  ? 
Give  me  wha-t  the  Goddess  saith. 
Powerful  over  Life  and  Death. 
Life  and  Death !  O  Life  and  Death  ! 

{^Mighty  did  the  Mother  stand. 
With  her  foot  on  sea  and  land. 
Brow  uplifted  to  the  skies, 
With  their  secret  in  her  eyes. 
What  she  saw  and  said  that  day, 
None  of  her  pale  priests  could  say  : 
They  lay  like  dead  men.     If  there  fell 
Answer  from  her  lips,  ^twas  well  : 
But  what  it  was  no  tongue  can  tell.) 


A   CATCH. 

Once  the  head  is  gray, 
And  the  heart  is  dead, 

There's  no  more  to  do. 
Make  the  man  a  bed 

Six  foot  under  ground, 

There  he'll  slumber  sound. 


306         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Golden  was  my  hair, 
And  my  heart  did  beat 

To  the  viol's  voice 

Like  the  dancers'  feet. 

Not  colder  now  his  blood 

Who  died  before  the  flood. 

Fair,  and  fond,  and  false, 
Mother,  wife,  and  maid, 

Never  lived  a  man 

They  have  not  betrayed.    • 

None  shall  'scape  my  mirth 

But  old  Mother  Earth. 

Safely  housed  with  her, 
With  no  company 

But  my  brother  Worm, 
Who  will  feed  on  me, 

I  shall  slumber  sound. 

Deep  down  under  ground. 


THE   KING  IS    COLD. 

Rake  the  embers,  blow  the  coals, 

Kindle  at  once  a  roaring  fire. 

Here's  some  paper.     'Tis  nothing.  Sire. 
Light  it.     (They've  saved  a  thousand  souls  !) 
Run  for  fagots,  you  scurvy  knaves. 

There  are  plenty  out  in  the  public  square, 

You  know  they  fry  the  heretics  there  : 
(But  God  remembers  their  nameless  graves !) 
Fly,  fly,  or  the  King  may  die  ! 

Ugh !  his  royal  feet  are  like  snow, 


THE   KING   IS   COLD.  307 

And  the  cold  is  mounting  up  to  his  heart, 

(But  that  was  frozen  long  ago  !) 
Rascals,  varlets,  do  as  you're  told — 
The  King  is  cold. 

His  bed  of  state  is  a  grand  affair. 

With  sheets  of  satin  and  pillows  of  down, 
And  close  beside  it  stands  the  crown  ; 

But  that  won't  keep  him  from  dying  there. 

His  hands  are  wrinkled,  his  hair  is  gray. 

And  his  ancient  blood  is  sluggish  and  thin  ; 
When  he  was  young  it  was  hot  with  sin, 

But  that  is  over  this  many  a  day. 

Under  these  sheets  of  satin  and  lace 

He  slept  in  the  arms  of  his  concubines  ; 

Now  they  rouse  with  the  Prince  instead, 
Drinking  the  maddest,  merriest  wines. 

It's  pleasant  to  hear  such  catches  trolled, 
Now  the  King  is  cold. 

What  shall  I  do  with  his  Majesty  now  ? 

For,  thanks  to  my  potion,  the  man  is  dead. 

Suppose  I  bolster  him  up  in  bed, 
And  fix  the  crown  again  on  his  brow  ? 
That  would  be  merry  !     But  then  the  Prince 

Would  tumble  it  down,  I  know,  in  a  trice  : 

It  would  puzzle  the  Devil  to  name  a  vice 
That  would  make  his  excellent  Highness  wince. 
But  hark,  he's  coming,  I  know  his  step  : 

He's  stealing  to  see  if  his  wishes  are  true. 
Ah,  Sire,  may  your  father's  end  be  yours. 

(With  just  such  a  son  to  murder  you  !) 
Peace  to  the  dead !     Let  the  bells  be  tolled, 
The  King  is  cold ! 


308         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


THE  MESSENGER  AT  NIGHT. 

A  FACE  at  the  window, 

A  tap  on  the  pane  ; 
Who  is  it  that  wants  me 

To-night  in  the  rain  ? 

I  have  lighted  my  chamber, 
And  brought  out  my  wine, 

For  a  score  of  good  fellows 
Were  coming  to  dine. 

The  dastards  have  failed  me. 

And  sent  in  the  rain 
The  man  at  the  window, 

To  tap  on  the  pane. 

I  hear  the  rain  patter, 

I  hear  the  wind  blow ; 
I  hate  the  wild  weather. 

And  yet  I  must  go. 

I  could  moan  like  the  night  wind. 

And  weep  like  the   rain, 
But  the  Thing  at  the  window 

Is  tapping  again. 

It  beckons,  I  follow. 

Good -by  to  the  light. 
I  am  going,  O  whither  ? 

Out  into  the  Night  1 


OUT   TO   SEA.  309 


OUT  TO  SEA. 

The  wind  is  blowing  east, 

And  the  waves  are  running  free  ; 
Let's  hoist  the  sail  at  once, 
And  stand  out  to  sea, 

(You  and  me.) 
I  am  growing  more  and  more 
A -weary  of  the  shore  ; 
It  was  never  so  before- 
Gut  to  sea ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  east, 

How  it  swells  the  straining   sail ! 
A  little  further  out 

We  shall  have  a  jolly  gale. 

(Cling  to  me.) 
The  waves  are   running  high, 
And  the  gulls,  how  they  fly! 
We  shall  only  see  the  sky 
Out  to  sea  ! 

The  wind  is  blowing  east 

From  the  dark  and  bloody  shore, 
Where  flash  a  million  swords, 
And  the  dreadful  cannon  roar. 

(Woe  is  me !) 
There's  a  curse  upon  the  land, 
(Is  that  blood  upon  my  hand  ?) 
What  can  we  do  but  stand 
Out  to  sea? 


3IO        THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


A   GREEK   SONG. 

Demetrius  to  his  men, 

In  the  sun's  setting  light: 
"  Go,  brave  ones,  to  the  water. 

And  eat  your  bread  to-night. 

But  nephew  dear,  Lamprakes, 

Come  sit  beside  me  here  ; 
Gird  on  my  arms  and  use  them. 

No  kin  of  mine  should  fear. 

Come,  take  my  sword,  brave  comrades, 

(I  think  ye  find  it  red,) 
And  cut  me  down  green  branches, 

And  spread  them  for  my  bed. 

For  now  I  feel  death  coming. 

And  I  must  shortly  die  ; 
Make  wide  my  tomb,  remember. 

And  let  its  roof  be  high. 

Give  me  room  to  load  my  musket. 

And  stand  erect  to  fight. 
Be  sure  you  leave  a  window. 

And  leave  it  on  the  right, 

To  entice  the  merry  swallows 
To  bring  the  spring  that  way, 

And  the  nightingale  to  warble 
In  the  good  month  of  May." 


"WANDERING   ALONG   A   WASTE."  31I 


Wandering  along  a  waste 

Where  once  a  city  stood, 
I  saw  a  ruined  tomb, 
And  in  that  tomb  an  urn  : 

A  sacred,  funeral  urn, 
Without  a  name,  or  date, 

And  in  its  hollow  depth 

A  little  human  dust. 

"  Whose  dust  is  here,"  I  asked, 

"  In  this  forgotten  urn  ? 

And  where  this  waste  now  lies 
What  city  rose  of  old  ?  " 

None  knows  ;    its  name  is  lost  ; 

It  was,  and  is  no  more. 

Gone  like  a  wind  that  blew 
A  thousand  years  ago. 

Its  melancholy  end 

Will  be  the  end  of  all ; 
For  as  it  passed  away 
The  Universe  will  pass. 

Its  sole  memorial 

Some  ruined  World  like  ours  ; 

A  solitary  urn 

Full  of  the  dust  of  men. 


312         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


HEAD,    OR   HEART. 

The  loving  songs  you  sing  to  me 

With  such  a  subtle  art, 
My  poet,  are  they  from  the  head. 

Or  are  they  from  the  heart  ? 

"  From  somewhere  in  the  skies. 
It  may  be  near,  or  far, 
From  cloud,  or  moon,  or  star, 
A  misty  Spirit  flies, 

When  summer  nights  are  deep. 
And  all  are  fast  asleep, 
The  Spirit  of  whom  the  flowers. 

In  the  long,  dim  hours, 
Dream,  with  their  lips  apart. 
Who  gives,  as  he  goes. 
To  lily  and  rose 

With  rapture  dumb, 
A  kiss,  that  slips  in  the  heart. 
Where,  when  the  morn  is  come. 
We  find  it  as  dew, 
Pure,  perfect,  divine. 
Such  are  these  songs  of  mine." 

Not  from  your  heart,  then,  as  you  said. 
False  one,  your  songs,  but  from  your  head. 

"  Deep  down  beneath  the  sea, 
Whose  dreadful  waves  are  whirled 
About  the  roots  of  the  world, 

Where  death  and  darkness  be, 


DRIFTING.  313 

A  little  creature  lurks, 
Who  upwards  works,  and  works  ; 
Thorough  the  waters  vast. 

Thorough  the  waters  green, 
Up,  up,  until  at  last 

The  light  of  day  is  seen, 
When  lo,  it  has  builded  an  isle 

Above  the  seas, 
Whereon  the  heavens  smile, 

And  summer  the  whole  year  through 
Hangs  fruit  on  the  trees. 
And  the  isle  is  one  great  vine. 
Such  are  these  songs  of  mine." 

And  if  your  songs,  so  fine  your  art, 
Are  from  the  head,  and  from  the  heart, 
I  wonder  now  whence  this  is  ? 
You  answer  me — with  kisses  ! 


DRIFTING. 

Well,  summer  at  last  is  over, 
Gone  like  a  long,  sweet  dream. 

And  I  am  slowly  waking. 
As  I  drift  along  the  stream. 

This  dolce  far  tiiente 

Has  been  too  much  for  me  ; 
Nothing  done  on  my  picture, 

Except  that  doubtful  tree. 

I  went  to  the  glen  with  Gervase,    , 
And  sketched  one  afternoon, 

And  would  have  made  sunset  studies. 
But  for  the  witching  moon. 
14 


314         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  moon  did  all  the  mischief. 

The  moment  I  see  it  shine, 
With  a  pretty  woman  beside  me, 

My  heart's  no  longer  mine. 

But  have  I  really  lost  it  ? 

Or  has  it  slipped  away, 
Like  a  child  beguiled  by  summer. 

Who  will  come  home  tired  with  play  ? 

I  wonder  if  I  am  feeling 

The  passion  of  my  life  ? 
Do  I  love  that  woman,  Alice, 

Enough  to  call  her  wife  f 

I  think  so,  but  I  know  not, 

I  only  know  'tis  sweet 
To  lie,  as  I  am  lying, 

In  sunset,  at  her  feet ; 

Watching  her  face,  as,  thoughtful. 

She  leans  upon  her  hand, 
(Is  it  herself,  or  vie,  now, 

She  seeks  to  understand  ?) 

While  overhead  the  swallows 
Fly  home,  with  twittering  cries, 

And  through  the  distant  tree- tops 
The  moon  begins  to  rise. 

If  we  could  only  stay  so, 

In  such  a  happy  dream, 
I  would  not  for  worlds  awaken, 

But  drift  along  with  the  stream  ! 


THE   PROUD   LOVER.  315 


THE   PROUD   LOVER. 

I  NEVER  yet  could  understand 
How  men  could  love  in  vain  ; 

I  hold  it  weak  and  wrong  to  love, 
And  not  be  loved  again. 

For  me,  I  must  have  heart  for  heart, 

Deny  me  that,  and  we  must  part. 

There  be  who  love,  or  think  they  love, 

Without  return  for  years  ; 
They  waste  their  days  in  fruitless  sighs, 

Their  nights  in  hopeless  tears. 
Not  such  am  I,  my  heart  is  free, 
I  love  not  her  who  loves  not  me. 


I  KNOW  a  little  rose. 
And  O,  but  I  were  blest 

Could  I  but  be  the  drop  of  dew 
That  lies  upon  her  breast. 

But  I  dare  not  look  so  high, 
Nor  die  a  death  so  sweet  ; 

It  is  enough  for  me  to  be 
The  dust  about  her  feet ! 

THE  DYING   LOVER. 

The  grass  that  is  under  me  now 
Will  soon  be  over  me.  Sweet ; 

When  you  walk  this  way  again 
I  shall  not  hear  your  feet. 


3l6         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

You  may  walk  this  way  again, 
And  shed  your  tears  like  dew ; 

They  will  be  no  more  to  me  then 
Than  mine  are  now  to  you ! 


UNDER  THE  ROSE. 

She  wears  a  rose  in  her  hair, 

At  the  twilight's  dreamy  close  : 
Her  face  is  fair,  how  fair 
Under  the  rose. 

I  steal  like  a  shadow  there, 
As  she  sits  in  rapt  repose. 
And  whisper  my  loving   prayer 
Under  the   rose. 

She  takes  the  rose  from  her  hair, 
And  her  color  comes  and  goes. 
And  I — a  lover  will  dare 
Under  the  rose  ! 


EVEN-SONG. 

You  must  have  an  even-song  ? 
You  must  try  to  make  it,  then, 
P'or  to-night  my  thoughts  are  dumb  ; 
Not  a  tuneful  word  will  come 
From  my  tongue,  or  from  my  pen. 
'Tis  the  hour  when  all  things  sleep, 
And  the  flowers  are  steeped  in  dew  ; 
Thoughts  are  deep,  but  words  are  few, 


UNDER   THE   TREES.  31/ 

For,  like  thought,  they  He  too  deep. 
Silence  suits  the  season  best  ; 
Birds  are  silent  in  the   nest ; 
Harkcn,  not  a  note  is  heard 
From  the  throat  of  any  bird, 
Save  the  distant  nightingale. 
And  her  music  is  a  wail. 
Better  silence  till  the  morrow 
Than  that  mighty  dirge  of  sorrow. 
Let  our  singing,  then,  go  by. 
Since  the  prelude  is  a  sigh  ; 
Yet,  since  you  have  waited  long, 
Take  this  kiss  for  even-song ! 


UNDER  THE  TREES. 

When  the  summer  days  are  bright  and  long, 
And  the  little  birds  pipe  a-merry  song, 
'Tis  sweet  in  the  shady  woods  to  lie. 
And  gaze  at  the  leaves  and  the  twinkling  sky, 
Drinking  the  while  the  rare,  cool   breeze, 
Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees. 

When  winter  comes,  and  the  days  are  dim, 
And  the  wind  is  singing  a  mournful  hymn, 
'Tis  sweet  in  the  faded  woods  to  stray. 
And  tread  the  dead  leaves  into  the  clay, 
Thinking  of  all  life's  mysteries 
Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees. 

SumBier  or  winter,  day  or  night, 
The  woods  are  an  ever-new  delight ; 


3l8  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

They  give  us  peace,  and  they  make  us  strong 
Such  wonderful  balms  to  them  belong  : 
So,  living  or  dying,  I'll  take  mine  ease 
Under  the  trees,  under  the  trees. 


It  is  a  winter  night. 

And  the  stilly  earth  is  white 
"With  the  blowing  of  the  lilies  of  the  snow  ; 

Once  it  was  as  red 

With  the  roses  summer  shed, 
But  the  roses  fled  with  summer  long  ago. 

We  sang  a  merry  tune. 

In  the  jolly  days  of  June, 
And  we  danced  adown  the  garden  in  the  light 

Now  December's  come. 

And  our  hearts  are  dark  and  dumb, 
As  we  huddle  o'er  the  embers  here  to-night. 


LEAVES. 

What  is  life,  and.  what  are  we  ? 
Only  leaves  upon  a  tree. 
Green  to-day,  to-morrow  scar, 
Then  we  are  no  longer  here. 

Others,  fair  and  brave  as  we, 
Grew  of  old  upon  the  tree  ; 
Now  they  crumble  in  the  mould, 
With  their  histories  untold. 


COURAGE   AND    PATIENXE.  319 

So  shall  we  :    it  is  our  lot 
Thus  to  die  and  be  forgot. 
By  and  by  the  tree  will  fall, 
And  Oblivion  cover  all. 


COURAGE   AND    PATIENCE. 

Life  is  sad,  because  we  know  it, 
Death,  because  we  know  it  not; 

But  we  will  not  fret  or  murmur, 
Every  man  must  bear  his  lot. 

Coward  hearts,  who  shrink  and  fly, 

Are  not  fit  to  live  or  die. 

Knowing  life,  we  should  not  fear  it, 
Neither  death,  for  that's  unknown ; 

Courage,  patience,  these  are  virtues 
Which  for  many  sins  atone. 

Who  has  these — and  have  not  I  ? 

He  is  fit  to  live  and  die. 


TO   BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

{On  his  Fortieth  Birthday.) 

"  Whom  the  gods  love  die  young,"  we  have  been  told, 

And  wise  of  some  the  saying  seems  to  be, 

Of  others  foolish ;    as  it  is  of  thee, 

Who  proven  hast  whom  the  gods  love  live  old. 

For  have  not  forty  seasons  o'er  thee  rolled, 

The  worst  propitious,  setting  like  a  sea 

Toward  the  haven  of  Prosperity, 

Now  full  in  sight,  so  fair  the  wind  doth  hold  ? 

Hast  thou  not  Fame,  the  poet's  chief  desire, 


320  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

A  wife  whom  thou  dost  love,  who  loves  thee  well, 
A  child  in  whom  your  differing  natures  blend, 
And  friends,  troops  of  them,  who  respect,  admire  : 
(How  deeply  one  it  suits  not  now  to  tell,) 
Such  lives  are  long,  and  have  a  perfect  end. 


TO  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

{With  Shakespeare's  Sonnets.) 

Had  we  been  liv-ing  in  the  antique  days. 

With  him,  whose  young  but  cunning  fingers  penned 

These  sugared  sonnets  to  his  strange-sweet  friend, 

I  dare  be  sworn  we  would  have  won  the  bays. 

Why  not  ?     We  could  have  turned  in  amorous  phrase 

Fancies  like  these,  where  love  and  friendship  blend, 

(Or  were  they  writ  for  some  more  private  end  ?) 

And  this,  we  see,  remembered  is  with  praise.     • 

Yes,  there's  a  luck  in  most  things,  and  in  none 

More  than  in  being  born  at  the  right  time  ; 

It  boots  not  what  the  labor  to  be  done. 

Or  feats  of  arms,  or  art,  or  building  rhyme. 

Not  that  the  heavens  the  little  can  make  great. 

But  many  a  man  has  lived  an  age  too  late. 


TO   JAMES   LORIMER   GRAHAM,   JR. 

{With  Shakespeare^ s  Sonnets.) 

What  can  I  give  him,  who  so  much  hath  giv^n, 
That  princely  heart,  so  over-kind  to  me, 
Who,  richly  guerdoned  both  of  earth  and  heaven, 
Holds  for  his  friends  his  heritage  in  fee  ? 


COLONEL  FREDERICK  TAYLOR.       321 

No  costly  trinket  of  the  golden  ore, 

Nor  precious  jewel  of  the  distant  Ind. 

Ay  me  !     These  are  not  hoarded  in  my  store, 

Who  have  no  coffers  but  my  grateful  mind. 

What  gift  then — nothing?     Stay,  this  Book  of  Song 

May  show  my  poverty  and  thy  desert, 

Steeped,  as  it  is,  in  love,  and  love's  sweet  wrong, 

Red  with  the  blood  that  ran  through  Shakespeare's  heart. 

Read  it  once  more,  and,  fancy  soaring  free. 

Think,  if  thou  canst,  that  I  am  singing  Thee. 


COLONEL  FREDERICK  TAYLOR. 

{Gettysburg,  July  3,  1863.) 

Many  the  ways  that  lead  to  death,  but  few 
Grandly,  and  only  one  is  glory's  gate. 
Standing  wherever  freemen  dare  their  fate. 
Determined,  as  thou  wert,  to  die — or  do. 
This  hast  thou  passed,  young  Soldier,  storming  through 
The  fiery  darkness  round  it,  not  too  late 
To  know  the  invaders  beaten  from  thy  State, 
Ah,  why  too  soon  to  rout  them  and  pursue  ? 
But  some  must  fall  as  thou  hast  fallen  ;    some 
Remain  to  fight  and  fall  another  day  ; 
And  some  go  down  in  peace  to  their  long  rest. 
If  't  were  not  now,  it  would  be  still  to  come. 
And  whether  now,  or  when  thy  hairs  were  gray, 
Were  fittest  for  thee,  God  alone  knows  best. 
14* 


322  THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


TO   JERVIS   McENTEE,   ARTIST. 

Jervis,  my  friend,  I  envy  you  the  art 

"Which  you  profess,  and  which  possesses  you, 

To  mimic  Nature ;  unto  her  so  true, 

Your  pictures  are  what  she  is  to  the  heart. 

The  mystery  of  which  it  is  a  part, 

That  gladdens  when  we  crush  the  vernal  dew. 

And  saddens  when  leaves  fall  and  flowers  are  few. 

Nor  quite  forsakes  us  in  the  busy  mart 

Whence  she  is  banished,  save  in  slips  of  sky 

That  swim  in  mist,  or  drip  in  dreary  rain. 

No  glimpse  of  peaks  far  off,  nor  forests  nigh. 

Only  dark  streets,  strange  forms,  a  barren  pain  ; 

Till  to  my  wall  I  turn  a  longing  eye. 

When  you  restore  me  mountains,  woods  again. 


FLORENCE   NIGHTINGALE. 

England,  if  Time  from  out  the  Book  of  Fame 
Should  blot  the  desperate  valor  of  thy  men 
In  the  Crimea,  an  Englishwoman's  name, 
As  sweet  as  ever  came  from  poet's  pen, 
Would  still  defy  him — Florence  Nightingale  ! 
Honor  to  that  fair  girl,  whose  pitying  heart 
Led  her  across  the  sea,  to  ease  the  smart 
Of  soldier  wounds,  and  hush  the  soldier's  wail. 
Men  can  be  great  when  great  occasions  call  : 
In  little  duties  women  find  their  spheres, 


TO   A   FRIEND.  323 

The  narrow  cares  that  cluster  round  the  hearth  ; 
But  this  dear  woman  wipes  a  woman's  tears, 
And  wears  the  crown  of  womanhood  for  all. 
Happy  the  land  that  gave  such  goodness  birth. 


TO   A   FRIEND. 

{Wilh  a  Vase.) 

Poet,  take  this  little  vase, 

From  a  lover  of  the  race, 

Given  to  hold,  a  funeral  jar, 

The  ashes  of  thy  loved  cigar. 

If  for  that  it  seems  too  fine, 

Fill  it  to  the  brim  with  wine, 

And  drink,  in  love,  to  me  and  mine, 

As  I  drain  to  thee  and  thine. 

Ashes,  though,  may  suit  it  best, 

(There's  a  plenty  in  my  breast ;) 

Fill  it,  then,  in  summer  hours, 

With  the  ashes  of  thy  flowers, 

Roses,  such  as  on  it  blow, 

Or  lilies,  like  its  ground  of  snow. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

I  AM  followed  by  a  spirit, 
In  my  sorrow  and  my  mirth  ; 

'Tis  the  spirit  of  an  infant, 
Dying  almost  at  its  birth, 

Unlamented,  yet  how  dear, 

Since,  unseen,  I  know  't  is  near. 


324  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

Would,  if  only  for  a  moment, 
As  I  feel  it,  I  could  see, 

In  the  light  of  heavenly  beauty, 
Sitting  on  its  father's  knee  : 

It  would  dry  this  hopeless  tear, 

Dropping  now,  it  is  so  near ! 


What  shall  I  sing,  and  how. 
Of  what  I  suffer  now  ? 
To  nature  trust,  or  art. 
The  burden  of  my  heart  ? 

'T  is  three  weeks  now,  but  tliree, 
Since  he  was  here  with  me  : 
The  dreadful  time  has  flown, 
And  now  I  am  alone. 

I  left  him  in  the  morn, 
(Not  knowing  how  forlorn,) 
There  in  his  little  bed, 
Weak,  sick,  but  O  not  dead  I 

When  I  came  back  at  noon, 
(Too  late,  and  yet  so  soon,) 
They  met  me  on  the  stairs, 
Like  Judgment  unawares  ! 

I  stopped.     "  Your  Will  is  dead  !  " 
"  It  cannot  be,"  1  said. 
It  could,  it  was — ah,  why  ? 
What  had  he  done  to  die  ? 


"THE    CHRISTMAS-TIME."  325 

I  knelt  beside  his  bed, 
I  kissed  his  royal  head, 
His  hand,  his  feet,  his  arm — 
The  body  yet  was  warm  ! 

I  wept !     But  did  I  weep  ? 

Or  was  my  grief  too  deep  ? 

I  only  know  I  cursed ; 

Pray  Heaven  that  was  the  worst  ! 

And  shall  I  sing  of  this  ? 
Or  of  the  dark  abyss 
In  which  I  grope  apart, 
Hugging  my  broken  heart? 

Not  now,  whatever  I  may 
In  some  far  distant  day ; 
Enough  what  here  appears, 
Drowned  in  these  bitter  tears ! 


The  Christmas-time  drew  slowly  near. 
The  happy  days  we  loved  to  see  ; 
Thrice  had  we  had  a  Christmas-tree, 

The  evergreen  of  all  the  year. 

"  What  have  you  brought  me  ?  ''  asked  the  boy 
When  I  came  home  at  night ;  and  I 
Made  some,  I  know  not  what,  reply. 

The  promise  of  a  future  toy. 

"  You  must  not  ask  me  any  more," 
I  said  at  last  ;  "  but  wait  and  see. 
When  Christmas  comes,  your  Christmas-tree, 

For  you  shall  have  it  as  before." 


326  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

We  meant  to  have  a  tiny  one, 

With  pendent  toys,  and  Ughted  boughs  ; 
But  darkness  fell  upon  the  house. 

For  Death,  in  passing,  took  my  son. 

Nathless  he  had  his  Christmas-tree, 
For  pines  within  the  graveyard  stand, 
Above  his  bed  of  yellow  sand, 

Beside  the  moanin?  of  the  sea. 


I  SIT  in  my  lonesome  chamber 

This  stilly,  winter  night. 
In  the  midst  of  quaint  old  volumes. 

With  the  cheery  fire  in  sight. 

In  the  darkened  room  behind  me 

My  darling  lies  asleep. 
Worn  out  with  constant  weeping, 

'Tis  now  my  turn  to  weep. 

What  do   I  weep  for?     Nothing. 

Or  a  very  common  thing  ; 
That  the  little  boy  I  loved  so. 

Like  a  dove  has  taken  wing. 

He  used  to  sleep  beside  us. 
In  reach  of  his  mother's  hand  ; 

They  have  moved  his  bed,  ah,  whither  ? 
They  have  made  him  one  in  the  sand ! 

Why  didn't  they  make  mine,  also  ? 

I'm  sure  I  want  to  go  : 
But  no,  I  must  live  for  his  mother, 

For  she  needs  me  still,  I  know. 


YOU   THINK,    I   SEE   IT   BY   YOUR    LOOKS."    327 

For  her  I  must  bear  my  sorrow, 

Nor  weep,  when  she  can  see  ; 
She  grieves  too  much  already, 

To  waste  a  sigh  for  me. 


You  think,  I  see  it  by  your  looks, 
That  I  am  buried  in  my  books, 
Wherein,  as  when  he  lived,  I  find 
An  easy  solace  for  my  mind. 

It  is  not  so.     I  try,  indeed, 
What  charmed  me  once  again  to  read  ; 
Page  after  page  I  turn  in  vain, 
They  leave  no  meaning  in  my  brain. 

I  see  the  words  ;  they  come  and  go. 
In  dark  procession,  sad  and  slow. 
Like  mourners  at  a  funeral, 
I  know  who  lies  beneath  the  pall ! 

I  dally  with  my  books,  and  why? 
Read  you  the  reason  in  my  eye. 
Because  I  would  do  more  than  weep ; 
Grief,  even  for  him,  may  be  too  deep. 

Had  /  been  taken,  what  would  he. 
Dear  heart,  be  doing  now  for  me  ? 
His  few  tears  dried,  (the  blow  being  new 
We'll  grant  he  sheds  a  tear  or  two,) 

He  would  have  smiled  as  heretofore, 
And  soon  have  talked  of  me  no  more  ; 
Like  other  little  orphan  boys. 
He  would  be  playing  with  his  toys. 


328         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

Should  I,  a  child  of  larger  growth, 
(You  know  you  called  us  children,  both,) 
Be,  in  my  grief,  less  wise  than  he  ? 
Or  you  be  harder,  love,  with  me  ? 

Then  chide  not,  as  you  have  to-day, 
For  poring  o'er  my  books,  but  say, 
"  His  ways  remind  me  of  the  boy's  ; 
For  see,  he's  playing  with  his  toys." 


What  shall  we  do  when  those  we  love 
Are  gone  to  their  seraphic   rest  ? 
Since  we  must  live,  what  life  is  best 

Before  the  clearer  eyes  above  ? 

Shall  we  recall  them  as  they  were. 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  dreadful  blow 
That,  dealt  in  darkness,  laid  them  low, 

The  coffin  and  the  sepulchre  ? 

Or  shall  we  rather  (say,  we  can,) 
Be  what  we  used  to  be  of  old  ? 
Work,  one  for  love,  and  one  for  gold. 

The  tender  woman,  worldly  man  ? 

Shall  we  be  jealous  if  the  heart 

Lets  go  a  moment  of  its  dead  ? 
Mistrust  it,  and  revile  the  head, 

And  say  to  all  but  Death,  ''Depart?'' 

Or  shall  we  willing  be  to  take 

What  good  we  may  in  common  things. 
Blue  skies,   the  sea,  a  bird  that  sings, 

And  other  hearts  that  do  not  break  ? 


"WE   SAT   BY   THE   CHEERLESS   FIRESIDE.       329 

What  (}od  approves,  methinks,  I  know 
(If  aught  we  do  approved  can  be,) 
But  since  my  child  was  taken  from  me, 

My  only  pleasure  is  in  woe  : 

My  tortured  heart,  my  frenzied  head, 
For  when,  as  now,  a  smile  appears, 
I  would  be  drowned  in  endless  tears, 

Or,  happier,  with  my  darling — dead ! 


We  sat  by  the  cheerless  fireside, 

Mother,  and  you,  and  I  ; 
All  thinking  of  our  darling, 

And  sad  enough  to  die. 

He  lay  in  his  little  coffin, 
In  the  room  adjoining  ours, 

A  Christmas  wreath  on  his  bosom, 
His  brow  in  a  band  of  flowers. 

"  We  bury  the  boy  to-morrow," 

I  said,  or  seemed  to  say  ; 
"  Would  I  could  keep  it  from  coming 

By  lengthening  out  to-day  ! 

Why  can't  I  sit  by  the  fireside, 

As  I  am  sitting  now. 
And  feel  my  gray  hairs  thinning, 

And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ? 

God  keep  him  there  in  his  coffin 
Till  the  years  have  rolled  away ! 

If  he  must  be  buried  to-morrow, 
O  let  me  die  to-day  ! " 


330         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 


It  looks  in  at  the  window, 
Divinely  bright  and  far, 

The  loving  star  of  Venus, 
Our  little  Willy's  star. 

He  used  to  watch  its  rising, 
As  we  have  done  to-night. 

Its  lustrous,  steel-blue  twinkle, 
Its  steady  heart  of  light. 

"O  mamma,  there  is  Venus!" 
Methinks  I  hear  him  cry. 

As  he  leads  us  to  the  window. 
To  watch  his  brighter  eye. 

And  once  we  saw  him  kneeling 

Before  it,  in  his  chair. 
Folding  his  hands  together. 

And  making  some  sweet  prayer. 

What  did  he  ask  you,  Venus? 

To  take  his  soul  away  ? 
Or,  feeling  he  must  leave  us, 

Perhaps  he  prayed  to  stay. 

God  knows  ;  yott  cannot  tell  us, 

And  /le  is  gone  afar  ; 
And  we  are  left  in  sorrow, 

To  gaze  upon  his  star ! 


"WHAT   SHALL   I   DO   NEXT   SUMMER?"      331 


What  shall  I  do  next  summer, 
What  will  become  of  me 

When  I  draw  near  my  cottage, 
Beside  the  solemn  sea  ? 

Along  the  dusty  roadside 
I  shall  not  see  him  run, 

To  greet  his  loving  father, 
So  proud  to  meet  his  son. 

No  longer  in  the  distance 
I'll  strain  my  eager  eyes, 

To  catch  him  at  the  window. 
And  mark  his  sweet  surprise. 

The  gate  how  can  I  enter  ? 

How  bear  to  touch  the  door 
That  opens  in  the  chambers 

W^here  he  is  seen  no  more  ? 

When  last  I  crossed  the  threshold 
(I'm  glad  I  did  not  take 

His  dear  dead  body  thither,) 

I  thought  my  heart  would  break. 

"  My  son  was  here  last  summer, 
He  sat  in  yonder  chair  ; 

And  there,  beside  the  window, 
I  kissed  his  golden  hair !  " 

With  every  sweet  remembrance 
There  came  a  burst  of  tears ; 

There  is  but  one  such  tempest 
In  all  our  stormy  years. 


332  THE   BOOK   OF   THE   EAST. 

I  kissed  the  chair  he  sat  in, 
The  spot  his  feet  had  trod  ; 

I  clutched  the  empty  darkness 
To  pluck  him  back  from  God. 

O  ruined  heart  and  hearth-stone  ! 

What  will  become  of  me, 
In  my  deserted  dwelling 

Beside  the  dreadful  sea  ? 


When  first  he  died  there  was  no  day 
That  was  not  saddened  by  my  tears. 
"And  't  will  be  thus,"  I  said,  "  for  years; 

His  memory  cannot  fade  away." 

That  first  wild  burst  of  grief  is  o'er, 
The  spring  is  sealed  of  wretchedness  ; 
Not  that  I  love  my  darling  less, 

But  love,  or  think  of,  others  more. 

They  move  me  as  they  could  not  then, 
My  brain  at  least,  if  not  my  heart  ; 
And  so  I  try  to  act  my  part 

As  patiently  as  lesser  men. 

Pale  fathers  pass  me  in  the  street, 

Whose  little  sons,  like  mine,  are  dead  ; 
I  see  it  in  the  drooping  head. 

And  in  the  wandering  of  the  feet. 


THE   DREARY    WINTER   DAYS."  333 


The  dreary  winter  days  are  past, 

The  cloudy  sky,  the  bitter  blast  : 
Gone  is  the  snow,  the  sleet 
That  glazed  each  rugged  street. 

All  things  proclaim  that  Spring  is  near, 
Rejoicing  in  the  wakened  Year  : 

Even  /,  whose  tears  are  shed 

Above  the  Winter  dead. 

Darker  than  now  my  death  can  be, 

In  that  it  took  my  boy  from  me. 
My  heart  it  did  not  wring 
Like  this  first  breath  of  Spring. 

What  though  the  clouds  were  thick  o'erhead. 
And  earth  was  iron  to  my  tread. 

Rains  poured,  snows  whirled,  winds  blew, 

And  my  great  grief  was  new  ? 

'Twas  still — if  not  a  solace,  yet 
Something  akin  that  laid  regret  : 

It  hushed  my  useless  moan 

To  think  I  was  alone. 

When  drove  the  snow,  the  thought  would  rise, 
"  It  does  not  blind  his  little  eyes ! " 

When  winds  were  sharp  I  smiled. 

"They  cannot  stab  my  child!" 

Now  Spring  is  come,  I  sigh  and  say, 
"  He  cannot  see  this  sunny  day, 

Nor  feel  this  balmy  air 

That  lon^s  to  kiss  his  hair  !  " 


334         THE  BOOK  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  tender  spirit  of  the  hour 

That  stirs  the  sap,  and  paints  the  flower, 

Enfolding  land  and  sea, 

And  quickening  even  me. 

So  stings  my  soul,  I  hold  my  breath, 
And  try  to  break  the  dream  of  death, 

And  stagger  on  his  track 

Until  I  snatch  him  back  ! 

Great  God  !    If  he  should  feel  it  there, 
(Where,  where — some  angel  tell  me  where  ?) 

And  struggle  so  for  nie, 

How  terrible  't  would  be  ! 


Out  of  the  deeps  of  heaven 
A  bird  has  flown  to  my  door, 

As  twice  in  the  ripening  summers 
Its  mates  have  flown  before-* 

Why  it  has  flown  to  my  dwelling 

Nor  it  nor  I  may  know  ; 
And  only  the  silent  angels 

Can  tell  when  it  shall  go. 

That  it  will  not  straightway  vanish, 
But  fold  its  wings  with  mc, 

And  sing  in  the  greenest  branches 
Till  the  axe  is  laid  to  the  tree. 

Is  the  prayer  of  my  love  and  terror, 
For  my  soul  is  sore  distrest, 

Lest  I  wake  some  dreadful  morning, 
And  find  but  its  empty  nest  ! 


LATER    POEMS. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  SONG  OF  MAY. 

Can  it  be  that  Spring  is  come? 

So  the  Calendar  doth  say  : 
March  has  bkistered  off,  I  know, 
And  wild  April  soon  must  go, 

Then,  O  then  it  will  be   May! 

'Twas  a  merry  month  to  me 

Long  ago,  when  I  Was  young. 
I  have  dreams  of  childish  hours, 
In  the  meadows  picking  flowers, 
And  of  songs  the  robins  sung. 

Does  the  robin  still  remain  ? 

One,  I  mean,  that  loves  and  grieves? 
And — supposing  that  I   could 
Join  the  Children  in  the  Wood, 

Would  it  cover  me  with  leaves  ? 

Flowers,   I  see,   can  still  be  bought, 

And  who  will  may  buy,  not  I  : 
I  want  more  than  these  poor  flowers, 
I  demand  the  dews,  the  showers, 
Wind,  and  trees,  and  summer  sky. 

Why  not  say,   you  poor  old  man, 
You  demand  what  is  no  more  ? 
IS 


338  LATER   POEMS. 

Were  i.t  May,  twice  over  May, 

You  would  still  be  sad  to-day, 

For  you  are  not  as  before. 

May  is  only  for  the  young. 

Chill  December  suits  you  best  : 
Fallen  leaves,  not  flowers,  for  you. 
You  have  nothing  left  to  do  : 

Make  your  bed,  and  take  your  rest. 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  NEW-YEAR'S  SONG. 

I  WILL  not  stir  abroad  to-day, 

But  find  at  home  what  cheer  I  may. 

Old  men  like  me  are  out  of  date : 

Who  wants  to  see  a  grizzled  pate  ? 

If  silver  hairs  were  locks  of  gold, 

I  might  be  as  I  was  of  old  ; 

For  then  my  dead  would  all  be  here, 

And  that  would  make  a  happy  Year. 

The  old  man  now,  the  young  man  then, 
Are  we  the  same,  or  different  men? 
One  sits  at  home  with  slippered  feet. 
The  other  braves  the  driving  sleet  : 
His  light  heart  suns  itself  with  wine, 
It  will  not  warm  this  heart  of  mine  : 
One  sees  the  bridal,  one  the  bier. 
And  each,  in  his  own  way,  the  Year. 

Where  are  the  friends  I  used  to  know, 
Ned,  Fred,  not  many  years  ago. 
Whose  glass  clinked  mine  amid  the  din 
Of  Old   Year  out  and  New   Year  in  ? 


THE   VANISHED    MAY.  339 

"  Dead  rhymes  with  Ned,"  the  Master  said, 
Himself  among  the  Masters  dead  : 
Alack,  and  drear,   and  fear,  and  tear, 
Methinks,  all  sad  words  rhyme  with  Year. 

Some  one,  perhaps,  will  care  for  me 

When  I  no  longer  hear  or  see. 

I  hope  my  little  man  of  ten, 

When  he  shall  take  my  place  with  men, 

Will  think  about  me  in  the  grave, 

If  only  for  the  gifts  I  gave, 

And  say,  "  If  father  was  but  here, 

It  would  be  such  a  happy  Year  ! " 

Peace,  old  man,  peace  !     And  cease  this  song, 

Which  does  the  merry  season  wrong. 

You  have  the  sweetness  of  regret. 

The  friendships  you  remember  yet. 

You  have  what  time  will  not  destroy, 

The  love  of  your  remembering  boy: 

These  surely  are  enough  to  cheer 

The  morning  of  the  saddest  Year. 


THE   VANISHED    MAY. 

Why  is  it  that  when  Spring  is  come, 
The  first  sweet  touch  of  Spring, 

That  something  all  the  Winter  dumb 
Begins  in  me  to  sing  ? 

Begins,  perforce,  this  sunny  day 

To  solemnize  the  darkened  May  ? 

Why  the  bird  sings  I  know,  I  see 
Its  journeys  through  the  air ; 


340  LATER   POEMS. 

There  is  a  nest  in  yonder  tree, 

Its  little  ones  are  there. 
Thy  song,  sweet  bird,  is  not  like  mine, 
But  one  unending  Valentine. 

I  wander  through  the  woods,  and  mark, 

Above,  below,  around, 
The  tribes  that  live  on  leaf  and  bark, 

And  burrow  in  the  ground  ; 
If  Life  be  happiness,  I  guess 
The  world  is  full  of  Happiness. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that  I  am  sad  ? 

What  have  I  done  to-day, 
When  every  creature  else  is  glad, 

To  lose  the  joy  of  May  ? 
Why  ask  what  have  I  lost  ?     In  truth, 
What  is  the  saddest  loss  but  Youth  ? 

My  youth  has  gone,  and  what  remains? 

The  woods,  the  clouds,  the  sea. 
The  wild  March  winds,  the  April  rains— 

But  what  are  these  to  me  ? 
When  head  and  heart  alike  are  gray. 
What  can  restore  the  vanished  May  ? 


A   NEW  YEAR'S    SONG. 

The  world  is  full  of  mystery. 

Which  no  one  understands  : 
What  is  before  our  eyes  we  see, 

The  work  of  unseen  hands  ; 
But  whence,  and  when,  and  why  they  wrought, 
Escapes  the  grasp  of  human  thought. 


A   NEW   year's   song,  341 

There  was  a  time  when  we  were  not, 

And  there  will  be  again 
When  we  must  cease,  and  be  forgot, 

With  all  our  joy  and  pain. 
Gone  like  the  wind,  or  like  the  snow, 
That  fell  a  thousand  years  ago. 

We  live  as  if  we  should  not  die, 

Blindly,  but  wisely,  too  ; 
For  if  we  knew  Death  always  nigh, 

What  would  we  say,  or  do, 
But  fold  our  hands,  and  close  our  eyes, 
And  care  no  more  who  lives  or  dies  ? 

If  Death  to  each  man  in  his  turn 

Is  coming,  soon  or  late. 
Be  ours  the  soldier's  unconcern, 

And  his  courageous  fate  ; 
Better  to  perish  in  the  strife 
Than  to  preserve  the  coward's  life. 

Before  my  hearth-fire  pondering  long, 

As  't  were  a  bivouac, 
I  heard  last  night  this  solemn  song. 

Which  I  have  summoned  back. 
It  seems  my  sombre  mood  to  cheer, 
And  is  my  greeting  to  the  Year. 

New  Year,  if  you  were  bringing  Youth, 

As  you  are  bringing  Age, 
I  would  not  have  it  back,  in  sooth  ; 

I  have  no  strength  to  wage 
Lost  battles  over.     Let  them  be, 
Bury  your  dead,  O  Memory  ! 


342  LATER   POEMS. 

You  can  bring  nothing  will  surprise, 

And  nothing  will  dismay, 
No  tears  again  in  these  old 'eyes, 

No  darkness  in  my  day. 
You  might  bring  light  and  smiles  instead, 
If  you  could  give  me  back  my  dead. 

I  have  beheld  your  kin,  New  Year, 

Full  fifty  times,  and  none 
That  was  so  happy,  and  so  dear, 

I  wept  when  it  was  done. 
Why  should  we  weep  when  years  depart. 
And  leave  their  ashes  in  the  heart  ? 

Good-by,  since  you  are  gone,  Old  Year, 

And  my  past  life,  good-by  ! 
I  shed  no  tear  upon  your  bier, 

For  it  is  well  to  die. 
New  Year,  your  worst  will  be  my  best — 
What  can  an  old  man  want  but  rest  ? 


MAY-DAY. 

If  I  were  asked  the  season, 
I  could  not  tell  to-day  ; 

I  should  say  it  still  was  Winter- 
The  Calendar  says  May. 

If  this,  indeed,  be  May-day, 
I  must  be  growing  old, 

For  nothing  I  was  used  to 
Uo  I  to-day  behold. 


MAV-DAV.  343 

On  May-day  in  New  England, 

In  that  old  town  of  ours, 
We  rose  before  the  daybreak, 

And  went  and  gathered  flowers. 

If  there  are  woods  in  Hingliam 

I  have  forgot  ;   I  know 
That  there  were  woods  in  Seekonk 

Some  forty  years  ago. 

And  thither  went  the  children, 

For  there  the  wild  flowers  grew  ; 
They  plucked  them  up  by  handfuls, 

With  lingers  wet  with  dew. 

And  then  in  pretty  baskets, 

With  little  sprigs  of  green 
They  placed  them,  and  stole  homeward, 

And  hoped  they  were  not  seen. 

Along  the  roads  and  by-ways 

The  merry  creatures  crept. 
And  round  their  sweethearts'  houses, 

While  still  their  sweethearts  slept. 

The  baskets  on  their  windows 

They  hung,  and  stole  away  ; 
And  no  one  knew  who  did  it, 

Or,  knowing,  none  would  say. 

It  spoiled  her  simple  pleasure 

If  any  maiden  knew 
Who  sent  her  her  May  basket — 

She  had  to  guess  out  who. 


344  LATER   POEMS. 

Ah,  those  indeed  were  May-days, 
But  this,  this  dreary  day, 

The  Calendar's  mistaken — 
'Tis  not  the  first  of  May  ! 

Why,  if  it  were,  my  lady, 
I  would  have  gone  in  time, 

And  made  you  your  May  basket. 
If  only  one  of  rhyme  ! 

But  I  haven't  done  it,  darling, 
For  the  words  that  I  have  sung 

Are  only  recollections 

Of  May  when  I  was  young. 


UP   IN   THE   TREES. 

Would  we  were  there,  in  the  woods  together. 

Two  little  birds  in  the  mid-summer  weather, 

Out  of  the  winter,  away  from  sorrow, 

With — think  of  it — never  a  thought  of  the  morrow! 

Up  in  the  trees,  whose  branches  are  swinging. 

They  sit  in  the  soft  airs,  singing,  singing 

A  song  in  which  youth  and  passion  are  blended, 

That  is  always  beginning,  and  never  ended  ! 

Look  at  them  there  now,  sitting,  sitting 

Where  owls  are  hooting,  and  bats  are  flitting  : 

One  is  singing,  the  other  is  sleeping, 

While  the  Lady  Moon  through  the  leaves  is  peeping  ! 

And  now  look  at  us,  whose  years  are  doubled. 

We  have  missed  so  much,  and  have  been  so  troubled. 

Would  we  were  there  in  the  woods  together. 

Two  happy  birds  in  the  mid-summer  weather  ! 


AN   OLD   SONG   REVERSED.  345 


AN    OLD    SONG   REVERSED. 

"  There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses." 

So  I  said  when   I  was  young. 
If  I  sang  that  song  again, 
'T  would  not  be  with  that  refrain, 
Which  but  suits  an  idle  tongue. 

Youth  has  gone,  and  hope  gone  with  it, 
Gone  the  strong  desire  for  fame. 

Laurels  are  not  for  the  old. 

Take  them,  lads.     Give  Senex  gold. 
What's  an  everlasting  name  ? 

When  my  life  was  in  its  summer 
One  fair  woman  liked  my  looks  : 

Now  that  Time  has  driven  his  plough 

In  deep  furrows  on  my  brow, 
I'm  no  more  in  her  good  books. 

"  There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses  ?  " 

Grave  beside  the  wintry  sea, 
Where  my  child  is,  and  my  heart. 
For  they  would  not  live  apart. 
What  has  been  your  gain  to  me  ? 

No,  the  words  I  sang  were  idle, 

And  will  ever  so  remain  : 
Death,  and  Age,  and  vanished  Youth, 
All  declare  this  bitter  truth, 

There's  a  loss  for  every  gain ! 
15* 


346  LATER   POEMS. 


SONGS   UNSUNG. 

Let  no  poet,  great  or  small, 
Say  that  he  will  sing  a  song  ; 

For  Song  cometh,  if  at  all, 
Not  because  we  woo  it  long, 

But  because  it  suits  its  will, 

Tired  at  last  of  being  still. 

Every  song  that  has  been  sung 
Was  before  it  took  a  voice. 

Waiting  since  the  world  was  young 
For  the  poet  of  its  choice. 

O,  if  any  waiting  be, 

May  they  come  to-day  to  me  ! 

I  am  ready  to  repeat 

Whatsoever  they  impart ; 

Sorrows  sent  by  them  are  sweet. 
They  know  how  to  heal  the  heart 

Ay,  and  in  the  lightest  strain 

Something  serious  doth  remain. 

What  are  my  white  hairs,  forsooth, 
And  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow  ? 

I  have  still  the  soul  of  youth. 
Try  me,  merry  Muses,  now. 

I  can  still  with  numbers  fleet 

Fill  the  world  with  dancing  feet. 

No,  I  am  no  longer  young, 
Old  am  I  this  many  a  year ; 


SISTE,    VIATOR.  347 

But  my  songs  will  yet  be  sung, 

Though  I  shall  not  live  to  hear. 
O  my  son  that  is  to  be, 
Sing  my  songs,  and  think  of  me ! 


SISTE,  VIATOR. 

As  I  was  going  on  my  way, 

For  every  man  his  way  must  go, 
I  met  a  youth,  one  sweet  spring  day, 

Who  knew  me,  or  who  seemed  to  know; 
Bright  as  a  lover  when  he  stands 

Where  she  is  in  her  bridal  trim. 
"Stop,  crown  me."     Then  with  ready  hands 

I  made  a  rosy  crown  for  him. 

As  I  was  going  on  my  way, 

I  did  not  dare  to  tarry  long, 
1  met  a  man  one  summer  day. 

Of  noble  bearing,  tall  and  strong  : 
The  light  of  love  was  in  his  eyes. 

The  spirit  of  love  in  every  limb. 
"Stop,  live  with  me."     I  thought  it  wise 

To  stop  a  while  and  live  with  him. 

As  I  was  going  on  my  way, 

But  slower  than  when  I  began, 
I  met  a  man,  one  autumn  day, 

Ah,  such  a  piteous,  poor  old  man ! 
I  saw  his  tears,  and  somehow  knew 

The  grief  that  made  his  eyes  so  dim. 
"  Stop,  comfort  me."     What  could  1  do 

But  stop  and  try  to  comfort  him  ? 


348  LATER   POEMS, 

Now  I  am  going  on  my  way, 

A  chill  is  creeping  over  me, 
But  whether  from  the  winter  day, 

Or  something  that  I  do  not  see, 
Who  knows  ?     I  feel  it  stealing  near, 

A  fearful  presence,  ghastly,  grim : 
'■'■  Stop  r'     When  that  dreadful  word  I  hear, 

I  shall  lie  down  in  dust  with  him. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

When  I  was  young  there  seemed  to  be 
No  pleasure  in  the  world  for  me. 
My  fellows  found  it  everywhere, 
Was  none  so  poor  but  had  his  share, 

They  took  mine,  too. 
I  sought  in  vain,  it  was  my  fate 
To  be  too  early,  or  too  late. 
The  nest  was  there,  the  bird  was  flown. 
Ah  why  ?     And  to  what  golden  zone  ? 

If  Youth  but  knew  ! 

Why  art  thou.  Youth,  so  swift,  so  slow? 
Why  dost  thou  let  thy  pleasures  go  ? 
All  that  they  grasp  thy  hands  let  fall, 
The  best  they  do  not  grasp  at  all. 

Do  not  pursue. 
What  tingles  in  my  blood  like  wine  ? 
Those  tender  eyes  that  turn  to  mine, 
The  soft  tears  in  my  eyes  that  start — ■ 
Tell  me,  what  does  it  mean,  my  heart  ? 

If  Youth  but  knew! 


YOUTH   AND   AGE.  349 

Now  I  am  old  there  seems  to  be 
No  pleasure  in  the  world  for  me, 
But  vain  regrets  for  what  is  past, 
Because  I  did  not  hold  it  fast,  « 

Because  it  flew. 
That  Youth  is  weak,  and  Age  is  strong, 
Should  be  the  burden  of  my  song, 
And  might  be  in  my  happier  hours, 
If  autumn  leaves  were  summer  flowers, 

If  Age  could  do  ! 

Mock  not  my  sighs,  and  my  white  hair, 
O  Youth,  so  foolish  and  so  fair ! 
Remember,  life  is  not  all  June, 
The  lean  and  slippered  pantaloon 

Awaits  thee,  too. 
Be  wise,  delay  not,  oh  make  haste. 
Go,  steal  your  arms  around  her  waist, 
The  rosebud  mouth  begins  to  blow, 
Stoop  down,  and  kiss  it — so,  boy,  so  ! 

If  Age  could  do  ! 

Dum  vnninus,  the  wise  men  say, 
And  you  can  do  it,  as  well  as  they ; 
So  live  and  love,  then,  while  you  can, 
Nor  sigh,  like  me,  when  you  are  a  man, 

"  If  Youth  but  knew!" 
Far  better  be  where  Folly  dwells. 
And  shake  with  him  your  jangling  bells, 
Than  hear  belated  Wisdom  come, 
And  beat  upon  the  muffled  drum, 

''  If  Age  could  do.'" 


jo^ 


LATER   POEMS. 


IRREPARABLE. 

The  sorrow  of  all  sorrows 
Was  never  sung  or  said, 

Though  many  a  poet  borrows 
The  mourning  of  the  dead, 

And  darkly  buries  pleasure 

In  some  melodious  measure. 

The  loss  of  youth  is  sadness 
To  all  who  think,  or  feel, 

A  wound  no  after  gladness 
Can  ever  wholly  heal  ; 

And  yet,  so  many  share  it, 

We  learn  at  last  to  bear  it. 

The  faltering  and  the  failing 
Of  friends  is  sadder  still, 

For  friends  grown  foes,  assailing, 
Know  when  and  where  to  kill ; 

But  souls  themselves  sustaining, 

Have  still  a  friend  remaining. 

The  death  of  those  who  love  us. 
And  those  we  love,  is  sore  ; 

But  think  they  are  above  us. 
Or  think  they  are  no  more. 

We  bear  the  blows  that   sever, 

We  cannot  weep  forever  ! 

The  sorrow  of  all  sorrows 
Is  deeper  than  all  these, 


THE   TWO   ANCHORS.  35 1 

And  all  that  anguish  borrows, 

Upon  its  bended  knees  ; 
No  tears  nor  prayers  relieve  it, 
No  loving  vows  deceive  it. 

It  is  one  day  to  waken 

And  find  that  love  is  flown. 
And  cannot  be  o'ertaken, 

And  we  are  left  alone  : 
No  wo  that  can  be  spoken, 
No  heart  that  can  be  broken  ! 

No  wish  for  love's  returning. 

Or  something  in  its  stead  ; 
No  missing  it,  and  yearning 

As  for  the  dearer  dead  : 
No  yesterday,  no  morrow, 
But  everlastinsr  sorrow. 


THE   TWO    ANCHORS. 

It  was  a  gallant  sailor  man, 

Had  just  come  home  from  sea. 
And  as  I  passed  him  in  the  town 

He  sang  "  Ahoy  !  "  to  me. 
I  stopped,  and  saw  1  knew  the  man, 

Had  known  him  from  a  boy  ; 
And  so  I  answered  sailor-like, 

"Avast!"  to  his  "  Ahoy  I  " 
I  made  a  song  for  him  one  day. 

His  ship  was  then  in  sight, 
"  The  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

The  great  one  on  the  right." 


352  LATER   POEMS. 

I  gave  his  hand  a  hearty  grip, 

"  So  you  are  back  again? 
They  say  you  have  been  pirating 

Upon  the  Spanish  Main. 
Or  was  it  some  rich  Indiaman 

You  robbed  of  all  her  pearls  ? 
Of  course   you  have  been  breaking  hearts 

Of  poor  Kanaka  girls  !  " 
"  Whei'ever  I  have  been,"  he  said, 

"  I  kept  my  ship  in  sight, 
*  The  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

The  great  one  on  the  right.'  " 

"  I  heard  last  night  that  you  were  in, 

I  walked  the  wharves  to-day, 
'But  saw  no  ship  that  looked  like  yours. 

Where  does  the  good  ship  lay  ? 
I  want  to  go  on  board  of  her." 

"  And  so  you  shall,"  said  he  ; 
"  But  there  are  many  things  to  do 

When  one  comes  home  from  sea. 
You  know  the  song  you  made  for  me, 

I  sing  it  morn  and  night, 
'  The  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

The  great  one  on  the  right.' " 

"  But  how's  your  wife,  and  little  one  ?  " 

"  Come  home  with  me,"  he  said. 
"Go  on,  go  on  ;   I  follow  you." 

I  followed  where  he  led. 
He  had  a  pleasant  little  house. 

The  door  was  open  wide. 
And  at  the  door  the  dearest  face, 

A  dearer  one  inside  1 


TOO   OLD   FOR    KISSES.  353 

He  hugged  his  wife  and  child,  he  sang, 

His  spirits  were  so  light, 
"  The  little  anchor  on  the  left, 

The  oreat  one  on  the  ri^rht." 


'Twas  supper-time,  and  we  sat  down, 

The  sailor's  wife  and  child. 
And  he  and  I  ;  he  looked  at  them, 

And  looked  at  me,  and  smiled. 
"  I  think  of  this  when  I  am  tossed 

Upon  the  stormy  foam, 
And  though  a  thousand  leagues  away, 

Am  anchored  here  at  home." 
Then,  giving  each  a  kiss,  he  said, 

"  I  see  in  dreams  at  night 
This  little  anchor  on  my  left, 

This  great  one  on  my  right !  " 


TOO    OLD   FOR   KISSES. 

My  uncle  Philip,  hale  old  man, 

Has  children  by  the  dozen  ; 
Tom,  Ned,  and  Jack,  and  Kate  and  Ann — 

How  many  call  me  "  Cousin  ?  " 
Good  boys  and  girls,  the  best  was  Bess, 

I  bore  her  on  my  shoulder  ; 
A  little  bud  of  loveliness 

That  never  should  grow  older ! 
Her  eyes  had  such  a  pleading  way. 

They  seemed  to  say,  "  Don't  strike  me." 
Then,  growing  bold  another  day, 

"  I  mean  to  make  you  like  me." 


354  LATER   POEMS. 

I  liked  my  cousin,  early,  late, 
Who  liked  not  little  misses  : 

She  used  to  meet  me  at  the  gate, 
Just  old  enough  for  kisses  ! 


This  was,  I  think,  three  years  ago. 

Before  I  went  to  college  : 
I  learned  but  one  thing — how  to  row, 

A  healthy  sort  of  knowledge. 
When  I  was  plucked,  (we  won  the  race,) 

And  all  was  at  an  end  there, 
I  thought  of  Uncle  Philip's  place, 

And  every  country  friend  there. 
My  cousin  met  me  at  the  gate. 

She  looked  five,  ten  years  older, 
A  tall  young  woman,  still,  sedate. 

With  manners  coyer,  colder. 
She  gave  her  hand  with  stately  pride. 

"  Why,  what  a  greeting  this  is  ! 
You  used  to  kiss  me."     She  replied, 

"  I  am  too  old  for  kisses." 

I  loved — I  love  my  Cousin  Bess, 

She's  always  in  my  mind  now  ; 
A  full-blown  bud  of  loveliness, 

The  rose  of  womankind  now  ! 
She  must  have  suitors,  old  and  young 

Must  bow  their  heads  before  her ; 
Vows  must  be  made,  and  songs  be  sung 

By  many  a  mad  adorer. 
But  I  must  win  her  :  she  must  give 

To  me  her  youth  and  beauty  ; 
And  I — to  love  her  while  I  live 

Will  be  my  happy  duty. 


THE   lady's   gift.  355 

For  she  will  love  mc  soon  or  late, 

And  be  my  bliss  of  blisses, 
Will  come  to  meet  me  at  the  gate, 

Nor  be  too  old  for  kisses! 


THE   LADY'S   GIFT. 

"O  GIVE  me  something,  Lady, 

For  I  have  given  my  heart, 
A  trifle  to  replace  it. 

When  we  are  far  apart." 
She  drew  from  out  her  bosom 

A  rose-bud  wet  with  dew, 
And  gave  it  to  him,  saying, 

"  Here's  something,  Sir,  for  you." 
"  I  take  it,  and  will  keep  it, 

For  never  lady  wore 
A  flower  so  pure  and  perfect. 

But  you  must  give  me  more." 

"  I  have  no  more  to  give.  Sir, 

A  simple  maid  like  me, 
Who  has  nor  birth  nor  fortune, 

What  should  she  have  ?  "  said  she. 
"  But  you  have  gold,"  he  answered. 

"  No  lady  in  the  land 
So  rich  a  dower."     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  The  ring  upon  your  hand." 
She  slipped  from  off  her  finger 

The  little  ring  she  wore. 
"  I   take  it,  and  will  wear  it. 

But  you  must  give  me  more." 


356  LATER   POEMS. 

"  What  more  have  I  to  give  you  ? 

Why  give  you  anything? 
You  had  my  rose  before,  Sir, 

And  nowf  you  have  my  ring." 
"  You  have  forgotten  one  thing." 

"  I  do  not  understand." 
"  The  dew  goes  with  the  rose-bud. 

And  with  the  ring  the  hand." 
She  gave  her  hand,  he  took  it. 

And  kissed  it  o'er  and  o'er  : 
"  I  give  myself  to  you,  love, 

I  can  not  give  you  more." 


THE   MARRIAGE   KNOT. 

I  KNOW  a  bright  and  beauteous  May, 

Who  knows  I  love  her  well ; 
But  if  she  loves,  or  will  some  day, 

I  cannot  make  her  tell. 
She  sings  the  songs  I  write  for  her, 

Of  tender  hearts  betrayed  ; 
But  not  the  one  that  I  prefer, 

About  a  country  maid. 
The  hour  when  I  its  burden  hear 

Will  never  be  forgot : 
"  O  stay  not  long,  but  come,  my  dear, 

And  knit  our  marriage  knot  !  " 

It  is  about  a  country  maid — • 

I  see  her  in  my  mind  ; 
She  is  not  of  her  love  afraid. 

And  cannot  be  unkind. 


THE   MARRIAGE   KNOT.  357 

She  knits,  and  sings  with  many  a  sigh, 

And,  as  her  needles  ghde, 
She  wishes,  and  she  wonders  why 

He  is  not  at  her  side. 
"  He  promised  he  would  meet  me  here, 

Upon  this  very  spot  : 

0  stay  not  long,  but  come,  my  dear. 
And  knit  our  marriage  knot !  " 

My  lady  will  not  sing  the  song. 

"Why  not?"  I  say.     And  she, 
Tossing  her  head,  "  It  is  too  long." 

And  I,   "  Too  short,  may  be." 
She  has  her  little  wilful  ways, 

But  I  persist,  and  then, 
"  It  is  not  maidenly,"  she  says, 

"For  maids  to  sigh  for  men." 
"  But  men  must  sigh  for  maids,  I  fear, 

I  know  it  is  my  lot. 
Until  you  whisper,  '  Come,  my  dear, 
,  And  knit  our  marriage  knot !  '  " 

Why  is  my  little  one  so  coy  ? 
Why  does  she  use  me  so  ? 

1  am  no  fond  and  foolish  boy 
To  lightly  come  and  go. 

A  man  who  loves,  I  know  my  heart, 

And  will  know  hers  ere  long, 
For,  certes,  I  will  not  depart 

Until  she  sings  my  song. 
She  learned  it  all,  as  you  shall  hear. 

No  word  has  she  forgot. 
"  Begin,  my  dearest."     "  Come,  my  dear, 

And  knit  our  marriage  knot !  " 


358  LATER   POEMS. 


PHILLIS. 

"  Phillis,  to  what  can  I  compare 
The  golden  glory  of  your  hair  ? 
Your  cheek — was  never  cheek  so  fair, 
Tell  me  if  those  be  blushes  there, 

Or  roses  dropt  on  lilies  ? 
Close,  an  you  will,  your  eyes  divine. 
Still  through  their  lids  I  feel  them  shine  : 
You  will  some  day  to  me  incline, 
No  distant  day  you  must  be  mine  ; 

Then  why  not  now,  O,  Phillis  ?  " 
Phillis,  without  frown  or  smile. 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

"  You  are  a  fair  one,  Phillis  ;    but  who  knows 
Whether  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
(Methinks  your  color  comes  and  goes,) 
Your  golden  tresses,  and  all  those 

Bewildering  charms  and  graces, 
Who,  save  your  maid — why  do  you  start  ? 
Knows  what  is  nature,  what  is  art  ? 
Do  you  ever  keep  the  two  apart  ? 
What  have  you  given  me  for  my  heart 

But  patched  and  painted  faces  ?  " 
Phillis,  with  a  frown  and  smile. 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

"Your  waiting-woman.  Mistress  Prue, 
Has  more  and  deeper  wit  than  you  : 
She  knows  precisely  what  to  do 
When  Matt  and  Diggory  come  to  woo, 
And  how  to  hold  her  lovers. 


THE  NECKLACE   OF   PEARLS.  359 

Now  you — I  hav^e  a  mind  to  see 
What  pretty  Prue  will  say  to  me 
(She  is  a  buxom  wench,  pardie,) 
'Twill  not  be  'fie!'  and  'la,  let  be!' 

That  angry  flush  discovers." 
Phillis,  with  a  frown,  not  smile, 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 

"  Phillis,  you  love  me,  you  confessed 
When  I  began  my  silly  jest ; 
The  guarded  secrets  of  your  breast 
Slipped  out,  your  heart  among  the  rest, 

Your  heart  that  now  so  still  is, 
A  little  bird,  that  fluttered  then 
For  fear  that  I,  like  lighter  men — 
Your  nod  says  '  Yes.'     But  tell  me  when. 
Or  I  must  summon  Prue  again — 

When  shall  it  be,  O  Phillis?" 
Phillis,  with  a  happy  smile. 
Sat  and  knotted  all  the  while. 


THE   NECKLACE   OF   PEARLS. 

He  met  her  in  the  garden, 

A  bright  and  beauteous  maid. 
Who,  grown  at  once  a  woman. 

Was  not  of  love  afraid  : 
She  loved,  and  could  not  help  it, 

Her  heart  went  out  to  his. 
And  as  he  stooped  to  kiss  her 

She  rose  to  meet  his  kiss. 

He  kissed  her  in  the  garden, 
And — was  it  what  he  said, 


560  LATER   POEMS. 

Or  the  shadow  of  the  roses 

That  made  her  cheeks  so  red  ? 

Her  bosom  rising,  falHng, 

With  new  and  strange  dehght, 

The  string  of  pearls  upon  it 
Was  not  so  white,  so  white. 

He  drew  her  down  the  garden, 

He  would  not  hear  her  "  No," 
She  must  go  if  she  loved  him 

Who  loved  her,  loved  her  so  : 
They  must  go  pluck  the  roses 

And  listen  to  the  dove  : 
The  dove  was  wooing,  wooing. 

As  he  was  her — for  love. 

He  led  her  down  the  garden, 

And  while  her  arms  were  round 
The  neck  she,  parting,  clung  to. 

She  saw  upon  the  ground 
The  string  that  held  her  necklace, 

With  not  a  pearl  thereon  : 
The  slender  string  was  broken. 

And  all  the  pearls  were  gone. 

Then  up  and  down  the  garden 

She  wandered  with  dismay. 
And  wondered  where  her  pearls  were. 

And  how  they  slipt  away  : 
They  nestled  in  her  bosom 

One  little  hour  ago. 
Before  they  plucked  the  roses. 

And  her  tears  began  to  flow. 

So  round  and  round  the  garden 
She  went  v.ith  peering  eyes  : 


THE   FLOWER   OF   LOVE   LIES   BLEEDING.       36 1 

O  is  not  that  the  necklace 

That  shining  yonder  Hcs  ? 
'Tis  but  a  string  of  dew-drops 

The  wind  has  broken  there, 
Or  the  tears  that  she  is  shedding 

That  make  her  look  more  'fair. 

Still  round  and  round  the  garden 

She  hunted  high  and  low, 
In  the  red  hearts  of  the  roses, 

The  lily's  breast  of  snow  : 
The  thorns  they  pricked  her  fingers, 

Her  fingers  bled  and  bled, 
But  her  heart  was  bleeding  faster— 

O  why  was  she  not  dead  ? 

For  she  must  leave  the  garden 

And  meet  her  mother's  eye. 
Who  will  perceive  she  sorrows, 

And  ask  the  reason  why  ; 
And  she  must  meet  her  father, 

Who,  as  she  hangs  her  head, 
Will  miss  the  priceless  necklace, 

And  wish  that  she  were  dead. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING. 

I  MET  a  little  maid  one  day, 

All  in  the  bright  May  weather  ; 
£he  danced,  and  brushed  the  dew  away 

As  lightly  as  a  feather. 
She  had  a  ballad  in  her  hand 

That  she  had  just  been  reading, 
Ikit  was  too  young  to  understand 
16 


362  LATER   POEMS. 

That  ditty  of  a  distant  land, 

"The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

She  tripped  across  the  meadow  grass, 

To  where  a  brook  was  flowing, 
Across  the  brook  like  wind  did  pass, 

Wherever  flowers  were  growing 
Like  some  bewildered  child  she  flew, 

Whom  fairies  were  misleading  : 
"  Whose  butterfly,"  I  said,  "  are  you  ? 
And  what  sweet  thing  do  you  pursue  ?  " 

"  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding. 

I've  found  the  wild  rose  in  the  hedge, 

And  found  the  tiger-lily, 
The  blue  flag  by  the  water's  edge, 

The  dancing  daffodilly, 
King-cups  and  pansies,  every  flower 

Except  the  one  I'm  needing  ; 
Perhaps  it  grows  in  some  dark  bower. 
And  opens  at  a  later  hour, 

This  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding." 

"  I  wouldn't  look  for  it,"   I  said, 

"  For  you  can  do  without  it. 
There's  no  such  flower."     She  shook  her  head. 

"  But  I  have  read  about  it!  " 
I  talked  to  her  of  bee  and  bird, 

But  she  was  all  unheeding  : 
Her  tender  heart  was  strangely  stirred, 
She  harped  on  that  unhappy  word, 

"  The  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding!  " 

"  My  child,''   I  sighed,  and  dropped  a  tear, 
"I   would  no  longer  mind  it; 


WISHING   AND    HAVING.  363 

You'll  find  it  some  clay,  never  fear, 

For  all  of  us  must  find  it. 
I  found  it  many  a  year  ago, 

With  one  of  gentle  breeding  ; 
You  and  the  little  lad  you  know, 
I  see  why  you  are  weeping  so — 

Vour  flower  of  love  lies  bleeding ! " 


WISHING  AND  HAVING. 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  were  one,  my  dear, 

You  would  be  sitting  now 
With  not  a  care  in  your  tender  heart, 

Not  a  wrinkle  upon  your  brow. 
The  clock  of  time  would  go  back  with  you 

All  the  years  you  have  been  my  wife, 
Till  its  golden  hands  had  pointed  out 

The  happiest  hour  of  your  life  : 
I  would  stop  them  at  that  immortal  hour, 

The  clock  should  no  longer  run  : 
You  could  not  be  sad,  and  sick,  and  old — 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  were  one. 

You  are  not  here  in  the  winter,  my  love, 

The  snow  is  not  whirling  down, 
You  are  in  the  heart  of  the  summer  wood3. 

In  your  dear  old  sea-side  town  ; 
A  patter  of  little  feet  in  the  leaves, 

A  beautiful  boy  at  your  side  ; 
He  is  gathering  flowers  in  the  shady  nooks — 

It  was  but  a  dream  that  he  died  ! 
Keep  hold  of  his  hands,  and  sing  to  him. 

No  mother  under  the  sun 


564  LATER   POEMS. 

Has  such  a  seraphic  child  as  yours — 
If  to  wish  and  to  have  are  one. 

Methinks  I  am  with  you  there,  dear  wife, 

In  that  old  house  by  the  sea  ; 
I  have  flown  to  you  as  the  bluebird  flies 

To  his  mate  in  the  poplar-tree. 
A  sailor's  hammock  hangs  at  the  door, 

You  swing  in  it,  book  in  hand ; 
A  boat  is  standing  in  for  the  beach, 

Its  keel  now  grates  on  the  sand  : 
Your  brothers  are  coming — two  manly  men, 

Whose  lives  have  only  begun  : 
Their  days  will  be  long  in  the  land,  dear  heart, 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  are  one. 

If  to  wish  and  to  have  were  one,  ah  me! 

I  would  not  be  old  and  poor. 
But  a  young  and  prosperous  gentleman, 

With  never  a  dun  at  the  door. 
There  would  be  no  past  to  bewail,  my  love, 

There  would  be  no  future  to  dread  ; 
Your  brothers  would  be  live  men  again, 

And  my  boy  would  not  be  dead. 
Perhaps  it  will  all  come  right  at  last, 

It  may  be,  when  all  is  done. 
We  shall  be  together  in  some  good  world. 

Where  to  wish  and  to  have  are  one. 


THE  FOLLOWER. 

We  have  a  youngster  in  the  house, 

A  little  man  of  ten, 
Who  dearest  to  his  mother  is 

Of  all  God's  little  men. 


THE   FOLLOWER.  365 

In-doors  and  out  he  clings  to  her, 

He  follows  up  and  down  ; 
He  steals  his  slender  hand  in  hers, 

He  plucks  her  by  the  gown. 
"  Why  do  you  cling  to  me  so,  child  ? 

You  track  me  everywhere  ; 
You  never  let  me  be  alone." 

And  he,  with  serious  air. 
Answered,  as  closer  still  he  drew, 
"  My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you." 

Two  years  before  the  boy  was  born, 

Another  child  of  seven. 
Whom  Heaven  had  lent  to  us  awhile, 

Went  back  again  to  Heaven. 
He  came  to  fill  his  brother's  place, 

And  bless  our  failing  years, 
The  good  God  sent  him  down  in  love. 

To  dry  our  useless  tears. 
I  think  so,  mother,  for  I  hear 

In  what  the  child  has  said 
A  meaning  that  he  knows  not  of, 

A  message  from  the  dead. 
He  answered  wiser  than  he  knew, 
"  My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you." 

Come  here,  my  child,  and  sit  with  me, 

Your  head  upon  my  breast  ; 
You  are  the  last  of  all  my  sons. 

And  you  must  be  the  best. 
How  much  I  love  you,  you  may  guess 

When,  grown  a  man  like  me. 
You  sit  as  I  am  sitting  now, 

Your  child  upon  your  knee. 


366  LATER   POEMS. 

Think  of  me  then,  and  what  I  said, 
(And  practised  when  I  could,) 

'Tis  something  to  be  great  and  wise, 
'Tis  better  to  be  good. 

O,  say  to  all  things  good  and  true, 

"  My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you." 

Come  here,  my  wife,  and  sit  by  me. 

And  place  your  hand  in  mine, 
(And  yours,  my  child,)  while  I  have  you 

'Tis  wicked  to  repine. 
We've  had  our  share  of  sorrows,  dear, 

We've  had  our  graves  to  fill  ; 
But  thank  the  good  God  overhead, 

We  have  each  other  still. 
We've  nothing  in  the  world  beside, 
I  For  we  are  only  three  ; 

Mother  and  child,  my  wife  and  child, 

How  dear  you  are  to  me. 
I  know,  indeed,  I  always  knew. 
My  feet  were  made  to  follow  you  ! 


LOVE'S   WILL. 

Love  always  looks  for  love  again. 

If  ever  single,  it  is  twain, 

And  till  it  finds  its  counterpart 

It  bears  about  an  aching  heart. 

Glory  is  with  itself  content, 

Wisdom,  with  what  the  gods  have  sent; 

But  love,  whom  they  look  down  upon. 

Fond  fool,  will  have  all  things  or  none. 


THE   FILLET,  ^6^ 

Who  dare  deny  his  hij^h  demands, 
Let  them  beware,  for  he  hath  hands  ; 
Strong  hands  hath  Love,  and  swift  to  slay. 
And  feet  that  know  tlicmselves  the  way 
To  where  his  parted  self  may  be. 
"  Go,  find,  and  fetch  her  unto  me," 
He  cries,  and  straightway  they  are  twain. 
Love  always  will  have  love  again. 


THE   FILLET. 

Love  has  a  fillet  on  his  eyes. 

He  sees  not  with  the  common  ken  ; 
Whom  his  fine  issues  touch  despise 

The  censures  of  indifferent  men. 
There  is  in  love  an  inward  sight. 

That  not  in  wit  nor  wisdom  lies ; 
He  walks  in  everlasting  light, 

Despite  the  fillet  on  his  eyes. 

If  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me, 

It  is  for  solid  reasons.  Sweet, 
For  something  other  than  we  see, 

That  satisfies,  though  incomplete; 
Or,  if  not  satisfies,  is  yet 

Not  mutable,  where  so  much  dies. 
Who  love,  as  we,  do  not  regret 

There  is  a  fillet  on  love's  eyes. 


368  LATER   POEMS. 


A   CATCH. 

Was  ever  yet  a  man, 

Since  this  old  world  began, 
That  looked  upon  a  woman  bewitched  not  of  her  eyes  ? 

Mating,  or  separating, 

Or  loving  her,  or  hating. 
In  all  his  commerce  with  her  the  fool  was  never  wise, 

Heigho  !     It  cannot  be, 

For  seeing  she  is  she. 
She  has  him  at  advantage,  in  body,  and  in  mind  : 

Pursuing,  or  undoing. 

She  still  compels  his  wooing, 
And  therefore  is  it,  ladies,  that  Love  is  painted  blind  ! 


LOVE. 


Love  is  older  than  his  birth. 
So  a  loving  poet  sung. 
How  can  he  be  so  old,  so  young, 
Born  every  hour  throughout  the  earth  ? 
Hearts  grow  cold. 
And  bells  are  tolled  ; 
His  heart  has  never  ceased  to  beat, 
Still  his  feet  are  dancing  feet. 

Blazing  in  his  strong  right  hand 

Is  the  hymeneal  torch ; 

He  lights  the  bridegroom  from  the  porch 
To  where  the  priests  and  altars  stand  ; 


AT    LAST.  369 

Leads  the  maid, 

Who,  unafraid, 
Passes  then  from  maid  to  wife, 
Knows  the  secret  of  her  Hfe  I 

Earth  hath  kings — he  kings  them  all. 
Their  rich  palaces  are  his. 
They  were,  and  are  not,  but  he  is. 
He  sees  great  empires  rise  and  fall, 
Fall  and  rise, 
With  equal  eyes  ; 
Nothing  disturbs  his  happy  reign. 
So  our  kissing  lips  remain. 

When  you  press  your  lips  to  mine, 
What  care  I  for  Time  or  Fate  ? 
Death  must  pass  me  by,  or  wait 
For  a  moment  less  divine. 
Heart  to  heart, 
We  cannot  part ; 
Henceforth  we  breathe  immortal  breath. 
Love  is  mightier  than  Death. 


AT   LAST. 

When  first  the  bride  and  bridegroom  wed. 

They  love  their  single  selves  the  best  • 
A  sword  is  in  the  marriage  bed, 

Their  separate  slumbers  are  not  rest. 
They  quarrel,  and  make  up  again. 
They  give  and  suffer  worlds  of  pain. 
Both  right  and  wrong, 
They  struggle  long, 
i5* 


370  LATER   POEMS. 

Till  some  good  day,  when  they  are  old, 
Some  dark  day,  when  the  bells  are  tolled, 
Death  having  taken  their  best  of  life. 

They  lose  themselves,  and  find  each  other; 
They  know  that  they  are  husband,  wife, 

For,  weeping,  they  are  Father,  Mother  ! 


A   DIRGE. 

Low  lies  in  dust  the  honored  head, 
Cold  is  the  hand  that  held  the  sword; 

Slowly  we  bear  them  to  the  dead, 
And  lay  them  down  without  a  word. 

What  is  there  to  be  said,  or  done  ? 

They  are  departed,  we  remain  ; 
Their  race  is  run,  their  crowns  are  won. 

They  will  not  come  to  us  again. 

Cut  off  by  fate  before  their  prime 
Could  harvest  half  the  golden  years, 

All  they  could  leave  they  left  us — time. 
All  we  could  give  we  gave  them — tears. 

Would  they  were  here,  or  we  were  there. 
Or  both  together,  heart  to  heart. 

O  death  in  life,  we  can  not  bear 
To  be  so  near — and  so  apart ! 


A   CARCANET.  37 1 


A   CARCANET. 

Not  what  the  chemists  say  they  be 
Are  pearls — they  never  grew  ; 

They  come  not  from  the  hollow  sea, 
They  come  from  heaven  in  dew. 

Down  in  the  Indian  sea  it  slips, 
Through  green  and  briny  whirls. 

Where  great  shells  catch  it  in  their  lips. 
And  kiss  it  into  pearls. 

If  dew  can  be  so  beauteous  made, 

O,  why  not  tears,  my  girl  ? 
Why  not  your  tears?     Be  not  afraid  — 

I  do  but  kiss  a  pearl ! 


A   ROSE  SONG. 

Why  are  red  roses  red  ? 

For  roses  once  were  white. 
Because  the  loving  nightingales 

Sang  on  their  thorns  all  night, 
Sang  till  the  blood  they  shed 
Had  dyed  the  roses  red. 

Why  are  white  roses  white  ? 

For  roses  once  were  red. 
Because  the  sorrowing  nightingales 

Wept  when  the  night  was  fled, 
Wept  till  their  tears  of  light 
Had  washed  the  roses  white. 


372  LATER   POEMS. 

Why  are  the  roses  sweet  ? 

For  once  they  had  no  scent. 
Because  one  day  the  Queen  of  Love 

Who  to  Adonis  went 
Brushed  them  with  heavenly  feet — ■ 
That  made  the  roses  sweet ! 


LILIAN. 


All  men  admire  you,  even  I, 

Who  hke  you  not,  pronounce  you  fair. 

Time  was  I  had  not  passed  you  by, 

You  might  have  caught  me  with  your  hair, 

That  still  is  beauteous  to  behold. 

If  I  should  liken  it  to  gold, 

I  should  disparage  it,  and  you, 

Which,  certes,  I  could  never  do. 

Go,  Lilian,  go,  but  ere  you  leave, 

I  must  an  ancient  story  tell. 

Before  our  father  Adam  fell. 

Before  he  saw  our  mother  Eve, 

He  had  a  wife,  whom  God  the  Lord 

Made  for  his  mate  when  He  made  him  ; 

Tall  as  he  was,  and  strong  of  limb, 

Of  splendid  beauty,  stern  and  cold. 

Glorious  with  golden  hair,  that  rolled 

Down  to  her  feet.     She  was  so  bold 

She  stung  him  into  savage  ire  ; 

Her  sharp  tongue  cut  him  like  a  sword, 

Wayward  as  wind,  and  fierce  as  fire. 

This  woman,  Lililh,  born  his  wife, 

The  torment  was  of  Adam's  life. 


GOING   HOME.  373 

He  left  her,  as  you  may  conceive, 

And  God  created  mother  Eve. 

You  think  the  serpent  tempted  her, 

And  she  our  father,  but  you  err  ; 

It  was  Lilith  in  the  serpent,  she 

It  was  who  tempted  with  her  Hes, 

(As  once  you  might  have  tempted  me,) 

And  lost  them  Paradise  ! 

Nor  was  her  vengeance  sated  then, 

For,  devil  as  she  was  at  birth. 

She  has  gone  up  and  down  the  earth 

Tempting  till  now  the  sons  of  men. 

She  captives  with  unholy  arts  : 

Who  loves  her,  dies.     We  know  her  dead — 

There  is  a  hair  from  out  her  head 

Twisted  around  their  hearts  ! 

O  lady  of  the  golden  hair  ! 

Lillian,  or  Lilith,  when  I  die. 

When  this  poor  heart  has  ceased  to  beat, 

They  will  not  find  you  tangled  there, 

Nor  will  they  find  me  at  your  feet, 

For,  see,  I  pass  you  by. 

The  hair  around  my  heart  that  day. 

If  golden  once,  will  then  be  gray  ! 


GOING   HOME. 

I  WENT  home  with  Ludmilla, 

As  I  very  often  do  ; 
We  sat  on  the  grass  together- 

But  what  is  that  to  you  ? 


374  LATER   POEMS. 

Beneath  the  trees  we  chatted, 

But  not  a  word  of  love  ; 
As  innocent  as  children, 

Or  the  birds  that  sang  above. 

I  squeezed  her  little  fingers, 

That  pressed,  methought,  my  ovm. 

"  Ludmilla,  O  Ludmilla, 
If  you  were  only  grown  !  " 

At  the  cheeks  of  poor  Ludmilla, 
Who  turned  away  her  head, 

You  might  have  lighted  a  candle, 
They  blushed  so  red,  so  red  ! 

"What  is  it,  dear  Ludmilla, 
What  maiden  hopes  or  fears  ?  " 

Her  answer  to  my  question 
Was  a  sudden  stream  of  tears. 

"  Weep  not,  weep  not,  Ludmilla, 
Or  let  your  tears  be  few  : 

My  heart  is  constant  ever, 
And  only  beats  for  you." 

The  moon  stole  out  of  the  darkness. 
As  bright  as  bright  could  be  ; 

She  smiled  when  I  kissed  my  darling, 
And  wished  that  she  were  she. 

We'll  meet  again  to  morrow, 
And  each  the  promise  made  ; 

Then  something  rustled  near  us. 
But  we  were  not  afraid. 


AT   THE   WINDOW.  375 

I  went  home  with  Ludmilla, 

Not  as  I  used  to  do, 
For  I  covered  her  with  kisses — 

But  what  is  that  to  you  ? 


AT  THE  WINDOW. 

I  SAW  him  through  the  window, 
When  the  new  moon  was  in  sight, 

Come  steaUng  down  the  garden, 
One  balmy  summer  night. 

He  tapped  upon  the  window, 
"Give  me  a  kiss,"  he  said; 

And  straightway  I  was  hidden, 
Like  a  little  mouse,  in  bed. 

One  eye  above  the  bed-clothes 

Was,  O,  so  fast  asleep  ; 
But  the  other  beneath — it  was  lucky 

He  was  not  there  to  peep. 

He  called  again,  as  eager 

As  the  stag  for  cooling  brooks. 

Or  the  bee  that  in  the  lilies 
For  golden  honey  looks. 

The  silence  of  fny  chamber — 

It  almost  made  me  start. 
For  nothing  there  betrayed  me, 

But  the  beating  of  my  heart. 


3/6  LATER   POEMS, 

He  knocked,  and  called,  and  called  me, 
And  his  voice,  so  clear  and  sweet, 

It  pulled  away  the  bed-clothes, 
And  stood  me  on  my  feet ! 

It  drew  me  to  the  window. 

"He  must  be  gone,"   I  thought. 
I  raised  the  window  softly. 

And  peeping  out  was  caught. 

Was  caught  and  showered  with  kisses. 

How  many  did  he  get  ? 
As  many  as  my  blushes. 

For  I  am  blushing  vet  ! 


SORROW  AND  JOY. 

Tell  me  what  is  sorrow  ?     It  is  a  garden-bed. 
And  what  is  joy  ?     It  is  a  little  rose. 
Which  in  that  garden  grows. 
I  plucked  it  in  my  youth  so  royal  red. 
To  weave  it  in  a  garland  for  my  head  ; 
It  pricked  my  hand,  I  let  it  drop  again, 
And  now  I  look  and  long  for  it  in  vain. 

Tell  me  what  is  sorrow?     It  is  an  endless  sea. 
And  what  is  joy  ?     It  is  a  little  pearl, 
Round  which  the  waters  whirl. 
I  dived  deep  down,  they  gave  it  up  to  me, 
To  keep  it  where  my  costly  jewels  be  ; 
It  dazzled  me,  I  let  it  fall  again, 
And  now  I  look  and  long  for  it  in  vain. 


IN   ALSATIA.  377 

Tell  mc  what  is  sorrow?     It  is  a  gloomy  cage. 
And  what  is  joy  ?     It  is  a  little  bird, 
Whose  song  therein  is  heard. 
Opening  the  door,  for  I  was  never  sage, 
1  took  it  from  its  perch ;  with  sudden  rage 
It  bit  me — bit,   I  let  it  go  again, 
And  now  I   look  and  long  for  it  in  vain. 

Tell  me  when  my  sorrow  shall  ended,  ended  be  ? 
And  when  return  the  joy  that  long  since  fled? 
Not  till  the  garden-bed 
Restores  the  rose  ;  not  till  the  endless  sea 
Restores  the  pearl ;  not  till  the  gloomy  cage 
Restores  the  bird  ;  not,  poor,  old   man,  till  age 
Which  sorrow  is  itself,  is  youth  again — 
And  so  I  look  and  long  for  it  in  vain ! 


IN  ALSATIA. 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  thee, 

Be  thou  good  fellow,  and  under  ban. 
Where  ha\e  I  met  thee  ?     Let  me  see, 

But,  tush  !  what  matter  ?     A  man's  a  man. 
This  is  a  hand  has  handled  sword, 

So  fill  up  thy  can,  and  clink  with  me  ; 
Out  with  thy  troubles,   thou  hast  my  word. 

Here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  thee. 

Thirty  years  man-at-arms  was  I, 

Trailed  pike  in  Flanders,  rough  work  there, 
Stormed  forts,  sacked  cities— pass  that  by, 


378  LATER   POEMS. 

There  must  be  soldiers,  I  suppose, 

So  long  as  kings  and  peoples  be. 
Marry,  sir,  'tis  a  world  of  blows, 

But  here  is  a  friend  shall  fight  for  thee. 

"  Free  lance,  freebooter,"  runs  the  song. 

Writ  by  some  skulking  clerk,   I  wot. 
I  never  do  peaceful  burghers  wrong, 

Nor  kiss  a  woman,  an  she  would  not. 
Never  take  purse,  but  from  the  dead. 

That  are  long  past  spending,  unlike  me. 
Who  seek  not  your  gold,  but  good  instead, 

For  here  is  the  friend  shall  fight  for  thee. 

What  knaves  be  these?     No  friends  of  mine. 

I'll  parley  with  them.     What  want  ye  here? 
The  splash  on  my  ruffle?     Pshaw!  'tis  wine. 

Will  draw  on  ye,  dogs,  if  you  dare  come  near. 
Have  at  ye,  then,  without  a  word., 

Man  enough  yet  for  two  or  three. 
Old  fellow,  thou  hast  one  friend— thy  sword, 

For  this  is  the  friend  that  fights  for  thee! 


THE   FLOWN   BIRD. 

The  maple  leaves  are  whirled  away. 

The  depths  of  the  great  pines  are  stirred  ; 
Night  settles  on  the  sullen  day, 

As  in  its  nest  the  mountain  bird. 
My  wandering  feet  go  up  and  down, 
And  back  and  forth,  from  town  to  town. 
Through  the  lone  woods,  and  by  the  sea. 
To  find  the  bird  that  fled  from  me. 


THE   FLOWN   BIRD.  379 

I  followed,  and   I  follow  yet, 
I  have  forgotten  to  forget. 

My  heart  goes  back,   but   I  go  on. 

Through  summer  heat,  and  winter  snow  ; 

Poor  heart,  we  are  no  longer  one, 
We  are  divided  by  our  woe. 

Go  to  the  nest  I  built,  and  call, 

She  may  be  hiding,  after  all. 

The  empty  nest,  if  that  remains. 

And  leave  me  in  the  long,  long  rains. 

My  sleeves  with  tears  are  always  wet, 

I  have  forgotten  to  forget. 

Men  know  my  story,  but  not  me. 

For  such  fidelity,  they  say. 
Exists  not — such  a  man  as  he 

Exists  not  in  the  world  to-day. 
If  his  light  bird  has  flown  the  nest, 
She  is  no  worse  than  all  the  rest ; 
Constant  they  are  not,  only  good 
To  bill  and  coo,  and  hatch  the  brood. 
He  has  but  one  thing  to  regret, 
He  has  forgotten  to  forget. 

All  day  I  see  the  ravens  fly, 

I  hear  the  sea-birds  scream  all  night ; 

The  moon  goes  up  and  down  the  sky, 
And  the  sun  comes  in  ghostly  light. 

Leaves  whirl,  white  flakes  about  me  blow — 

Are  they  spring  blossoms,  or  the  snow  ? 

Only  my  hair  !     Good-bye,  my  heart, 

The  time  has  come  for  us  to  part. 

Be  still,  you  will  be  happy  yet, 

For  Death  remembers  to  forget ! 


^80  LATER   POEMS. 


THE    RIVALS. 

A  KINO  of  a  most  royal  line 

Stood  at  his  gates,  as  History  saith  : 

He  stretched  his  hand,  he  made  the  sign 
To  put  a  captive  there  to  death. 

As  those  who  can  no  further  fly 

Turn  sharp  and  grasp  the  deadly  swords, 

So  the  poor  wretch  about  to  die 
Abused  the  king  with  bitter  words. 

"What  does  he  say?"  the  king  began, 
To  whom  his  jargon  was  unknown. 

His  Vizier,  a  kind-hearted  man, 

Who  knew  that  language  like  his  own. 

Answered  him,  "  '  O  my  lord  ! '  he  cries, 
'  Who  stay  their  hasty  hands  from  blood — 

God  made  for  such  men  Paradise. 
He  loves.  He  will  defend  the  good.'  " 

The  King's  great  heart  was  touched  at  this. 

"  The  captive's  blood  shall  not  be  shed." 
Then — for  a  serpent  needs  must  hiss — 

A  rival  of  the  Vizier  said  : 

"  It  is  not  decorous  that  we 

Whose  blood  comes  down  from  noble  springs- 
No  matter  what  the  end  may  be, 

We  should  speak  truth  before  our  kings. 


THE   VOICE    OF    EARTH.  38 1 

The   in:in  wlio  kneels  respited  here 

Abused  our  gracious,  clement  lord  : 
There  was  no  blessing,  O  Vizier, 

There  was  a  curse  in  every  word." 

Sternly  to  him  the  king:    "  I  see, 

You  speak  the  truth,  no  doubt ;    but  still 

His  falsehood  better  pleaseth  me. 

For  he  meant  good,  and  you  mean  ill. 

If  I  should  punish,  as  I  might, 

(Be  thankful  that  I  am  not  just) 
Your  head,  when  I  commanded  'Smite!' 

Would  roll  before  me  in  the  dust." 


THE  VOICE  OF   EARTH. 

The  Caliph  Omar  came  one  summer  day 

Where  one  of  the  great  House  of  Ommeyeh 

Was  to  be  borne  within  the  sepulcher, 

And,  straight  commanding  not  a  man  should  stir, 

Went  down  among  the  tombs  with  a  loud  cry. 

And  left  them  wondering  there.     An  hour  passed  by 

And  his  attendants  waited.     Then  he  came, 

Like  one  whose  head  is  bowed  with  grief  or  shame. 

Red  were  his  eyes  with  tears  he  could  not  check. 

And  the  great  veins  were  swollen  on  his  neck. 

"  Commander  of  the  Faithful,"  then  they  said, 

"  What  has  so  long  detained  you  with  the  dead?" 

"  I  sought  their  tombs  who  dearest  were,"  said  he, 

"  Saluted  all,  but  none  saluted  me. 

I  turned  my  back  upon  them  to  depart, 

And  from  the  Earth  a  voice  that  smote  my  heart 


382  LATER   POEMS. 

Cried  out  :    '  Omar,  why  dost  not  ask  of  me 
Where  are  the  arms,  that  they  sakite  not  thee  ?  ' 

*  What  is  become  of  them  ? '     And  Earth  repUed  : 

*  The  bands  that  tied  them  once  liave  been  untied. 
The  hand,  the  wrist,  the  arm,  the  shoulder-blade, 
All  now  are  separated,  all  decayed.' 

Turning  my  back  in  terror  to  depart, 
Again  the  dreadful  voice  that  shook  my  heart. 
Earth  called  to  me  once  more  :    '  Omar,  Omar ! 
Why  dost  not  ask  me  where  the  bodies  are  ?  ' 
'  What  is  become  of  them  ?  '     And  Earth  replied  : 

*  What  once  were  bodies  lie  on  every  side. 
The  shoulders  parted  from  the  ribs,   and  they 
From  the  backbone,  the  hip  bones  dropped  away, 
The  two  thigh  bones,  the  knees,  the  legs,  the  feet, 
All  have  departed,  never  more  to  meet.' 

I  turned  me  for  the  third  time  to  depart. 

Again  the  same  dark  voice  that  crushed  my  heart : 

'  Attend  to  me,  Omar.     Hast  thou  no  shroud 

That  wears  not  out?'     And  I,  with  spirit  bowed: 

'  O,  what  will  not  wear  out  ?'     Earth  answered  :   '  These- 

The  fear  and  love  of  God  and  his  decrees.' " 


SAINT  AND  SINNER. 

A  CERTAIN  holy  anchorite 

Who  for  himself  a  cave  had  made, 

Comfortless,  in  the  waste  Thebaid, 

Where,  like  a  wild  beast  in  his  den, 

He  passed  a  long  life  far  from  men, 

Untroubled  by  the  hateful  sight 

Of  woman — this  old  man  austere 

Fasted,  and  scourged  himself,  and  prayed, 


SAINT   AND   SINNER.  383 

Renouncing  all  the  world  holds  dear  ; 
His  sole  thought  being,  day  and  night, 
How  to  find  favor  in  God's  eyes, 
And  thereby  enter  Paradise. 

He  led  this  life  threescore  and  ten 

Starved  years,  puffed  up  with  sanctity. 

"  Who  more  a  saint?"  he  thought,  and   then 

Prayed  God  to  show  him  what  saint  he 

Should  emulate  to  holier  be  ; 

Thinking,  no  doubt,  like  many  now, 

Who  kneel  self-righteously,  and  pray, 

That  God  would  stoop  from  Heaven,  and  say: 

"There  is  none  holier  than  thou." 

That  night  God's  Angel  came  to  him, 

(The  sun  at  noonday  would  be  dim 

By  the  great  light  that  filled  the  place,) 

And  said  :  "  If  thou  in  sanctity, 

And  in  the  growth  of  heavenly  grace, 

Would'st  all  surpass,  thou  must  do  more 

Than  fast,  and  scourge  thyself,  and  pray. 

Thou  must  be  like,  or  strive  to  be, 

A  certain  man  ;  a  poet  he. 

For  he  upon  a  pipe  doth  play. 

And  sing  and  beg  from  door  to  door." 

He  heard  in  great  astonishment. 
Arose,  and  took  his  staff,  and  went 
Wandering  the  neighboring  country  round 
To  find  this  poet;  whom,  when  found 
(He  sat  a-piping  in  the   sun. 
And  sang  what  songs  came  in  his  head,) 
He  questioned  earnestly,  and  said  : 
"  I  pray  thee,  brother,  tell  me  now 


384  LATER   POEMS. 

What  good  and  great  work  thou  hast  done  ? 
What  path  that  holy  men  have  crod, 
What  fast,  what  penance,  or  what  vow 
Makes  thee  acceptable  to  God  ?  " 

Ashamed  to  be  so  questioned,  he 
Hung  down  his  head  as  he  replied  : 
"  O,  father,  do  not  scoif  at  me  ; 
I  know  no  good  work  I  have  done, 
And,  as  for  praying,  well-a-day, 
I  so  unworthy  am  to  pray, 
That,  sinner,  I  have  never  tried. 
I  go  from  door  to  door  and  play, 
(You  caught  me  piping  in  the  sun,) 
Cheering  the  simple  people  there, 
Who  something  for  my  hunger  spare." 

The  holy  man  insisted:  "Nay, 

But  in  the  midst  of  thy  ill  life, 

(For  it  is  ill,  as  thou  dost  say,) 

Perhaps  some  good  work  thou  hast  done." 

The  singer  then  :   "  I  know  of  none." 

Within  the  hermit's  mind  a  strife 
Now  rose — the  Angel — who  could  tell 
Whether  it  were  from  Heaven  or  Hell  ? 
"  How  hast  thou,"  to  the  poet  then, 
"  Become  the  beggar  that  thou  art  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  worldly  substance  spent 
In  riotous  living — women,  wine, 
Like  most  that  idle  craft  of  thine 
Who  follow  Hellward,  sinful  men  ?  '" 

To  whom  the  other,  pained  at  heart. 
But  not  a  whit  ashamed  :  "  It  went 


SAINT   AND    SINNER.  385 

Another  way.     'Twas  thus.     I  found 

A  poor,  pale  woman,  running  round 

Hither  and  thither,  sick,  distraught, 

(It  pains  mc  to  recall  it  yet,) 

Her  husband,  children  had  been  sold 

In  slavery  to  pay  a  debt. 

But  she  was  comely  to  behold, 

So  certain  sons  of  Belial  sought 

Her  ruin,  whom  may  God  condemn  ! 

Her,  weeping,  to  my  hut  I  brought, 

And  there  protected  her  from  them. 

I  gave  her  all  that  I  possessed, 

Went  with  her  to  the  city  where 

Her  wretched  husband  had  been  sold, 

And  her  young  children  ;  found  them  there 

And  brought  them  back.     You  guess  the  rest. 

For  they  are  happy  as  of  old. 

But  what  of  that  ?     In  Heaven's  name 

What  man  would  not  have  done  the  same  ? " 

The  hermit,  smitten  to  the  heart 
At  the  sad  tale  of  that  poor  wife. 
Wept  bitterly,  saying:  "For  my  part, 
I  have  not  done,  in  all  my  life 
I  thought  so  holy,  so  much  good. 
And  thou  art  so  misunderstood, 
And  yet  thou  makcst  no  complaint ; 
And  men,  because  I  fast  and  pray. 
While  thou  upon  thy  pipe  dost  play. 
They  call  thee  Sinner,  and  me  Saint !  " 
17 


LATER   POEMS. 


BRAHMA'S  ANSWER. 

Once  when  the  days  were  ages, 

And  the  old  Earth  was  young, 
The  high  gods  and  the  sages 
From  Nature's  golden  pages 
Her  open  secrets  wrung. 
Each  questioned  each  to  know 
When   came   the    Heavens   above,  and  whence    the    Earth 
below. 

Indra,  the  endless  giver 

Of  every  gracious  thing 
The  gods  to  him  deliver, 
Whose  bounty  is  the  river 

Of  which  they  are  the  spring, 

Indra,  with  anxious  heart, 
Ventures  with  Vivochuno  where  Brahma  is  apart. 

"  Brahma  !  Supremest  Being  ! 

By  whom  the  worlds  are  made. 
Where  we  are  blind,  all-seeing. 
Stable,  where  we  are  fleeing, 

Of  Life  and  Death  afraid, 

Instruct  us,  for  mankind, 
What  is  the  body,  Brahma  !  O  Brahma,  what  the  mind  ? " 

Hearing  as  though  he  heard  not. 

So  perfect  was  his  rest, 
So  vast  the  Soul  that  erred  not. 
So  wise  the  lips  that  stirred  not, 

His  hand  upon  his  breast 

He  laid,  whereat  his  face 
Was  mirrored  in  the  river  that  girt  that  holy  Place. 


HYMN   OF  THE   MYSTICS.  387 

They  questioned  each  the  other 

What  Brahma's  answer  meant. 
Said  Vivochuno,  "Brother, 
Through  Brahma  the  great  Mother 

Hath  spoken  her  intent, 

Man  ends  as  he  began — 
The  shadow  on  the  water  is  all  there  is  of  Man." 

"  The  Earth  with  woe  is  cumbered, 

And  no  man  understands  : 
They  see  their  days  are  numbered 
By  one  that  never  slumbered, 

Nor  stayed  his  dreadful  hands, 

/  see  with  Brahma's  eyes, 
The  body  is  the  shadow  that  on  the  water  lies." 

Thus  Indra,  looking  deeper, 

With  Brahma's  self  possessed. 
So  dry  thine  eyes,  thou  weeper. 
And  rise  again,  thou  sleeper ! 

The  hand  on  Brahma's  breast 
Is  his  divine  assent. 
Covering   the    soul   that   dies    not.     This   is  what  Brahma 
meant. 


HYMNS   OF  THE  MYSTICS. 

Roses  I  see,  the  sweetest  roses, 

As  in  the  cool  kiosk  I  pass, 
Tied  in  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 

And  fastened  to  the  roof  with  grass. 

What  has  bewitched  the  grass,  I  wonder  ? 
It  is  the  humblest  weed  that  grows. 


388  LATER   POEMS. 

How  comes  it  that  it  sits  up  yonder 
And  on  a  level  with  the  rose  ? 

"Silence!"     The  grass  said,  and  in  sadness 
Let  fall  its  tears  in  pearls  of  dew  ; 

"The  generous  man  robs  none  of  gladness 
And  never  scorns  old  friends  for  new. 

I  am  no  rose  among  the  roses, 
'    And  yet  there's  not  a  child  but  knows 
That  the  poor  grass  that  ties  these  posies 
Is  from  the  Garden  of  the  Rose  !  " 


The  love  I  bear  you,  dearest, 

Would  make  the  prettiest  tale, 
'  If  I  had  for  a  pen  to  write  it 
The  bill  of  a  nightingale. 

And  what  should  I  have  for  paper  ? 

I  know  what  would  be  best: 
Each  page  should  be  a  rose-leaf. 

As  snow  white  as  your  breast. 

And  with  such  pen  and  paper 
What  ink  should  then  be  mine  ? 

Tears — when  I  wrote  of  my  sorrow. 
When  I  wrote  of  my  pleasure — wine ! 


The  flying  of  the  arrow 

In  the  air  ; 
The  shifting  of  the  shuttle 

In  the  loom  ; 


"  THE    FLYING    OF   THE   ARROW."  389 

The  sinking  of  the  water 

In  the  sand  ; 
The  passing  from  the  cradle 

To  the  tomb  ; 
Tell  me,  Sufi,  tell  me,  is  it  all  ? 

What  the  bow  that  shoots  us 

Into  life  ? 
Where  the  loom  that  throws  us 

To  and  fro  ? 
Whose  the  hands  that  spills  us 

Into  death  ? 
What  in  the  making  mars  us 

Here  below  ? 
O  tell  me,  tell  me,  Sufi,  what  it  is  !  " 

"  I  see  the  arrow  flying, 

Not  what  sends  it, 
The  bow  that  shoots  it  hither, 

And  who  bends  it  ; 
I  see  the  shuttle  shifting, 

Not  what  throws  it. 
The  weaver  who  begun  it, 

And  will  close  it  ; 
I  see  the  water  sinking. 

Not  what  spills  it  ; 
The  emptied  pitcher  filling, 

And  who  fills  it ; 
But  where  the  arrow  flieth. 

And  what  the  loom  is  weaving, 

And  where  the  water  sinketh, 
I  do  not  see  at  all. 
What  in  the  cradle  lieth. 
And  what  it  is  that  thinketh. 
And  what  it  is  that  dieth. 


390  LATER   POEMS. 

The  living  and  the  leaving, 
I  do  not  know  at  all. 
Perhaps  it  is  not,  Hadje, 

Perhaps  it  does  but  seem  : 
The  shadow  of  a  vanished  cloud 
On  a  troubled  stream  ; 
What  some  Power  remembers— the  Phantom  of  its  Dream  !" 


Their  names  who  famous  were  of  old 

Are  antiquated  ;  long  ago 

CamiUus,  Cssar,  Scipio 

Were  with  forgotten  men  enrolled. 

Augustus,  Hadrian,  Antonine, 

There  is  an  end  to  all  the  line. 

Where  is  the  hand  that  grasped  the  sword  ? 

The  brow  that  wore  the  diadem  ? 

Let  the  grave  answer,  if  it  can  ; 

Speak,  speak,  thou  dust  that  once  was  man ! 

The  hollow  grave  returns  no  word, 

Oblivion  long  has  buried  them. 

This  fate  is  theirs,  and  this    alone. 

Who  in  a  wondrous  way  have  shone. 

For  all  the  rest,  who  go  to  death. 

As  soon  as  they  breathe  out  their  breath, 

They  are  gone — pursuit  of  them  is  vain, 

And  no  man  speaks  of  them  again. 

Since  all  is  dust,  then,  what  remains 

That  should  employ  our  serious  pains  ? 

Just  thoughts,  as  if  the  gods  were  by, 

Good  deeds,  and  words  which  never  lie  : 

A  disposition  that  receives, 

Accepts  what  happens,  and  believes 


"TRUST   NOT   FORTUNE.  "  39I 

The  hidden  spring  from  which  it  flows, 

The  distant  sea  to  which  it  goes, 

Though  by  no  mortal  understood, 

Is  necessary,  wise,  and  good. 

Great  names  have  perished  ;  this  survives, 

And  shapes  the  issue  of  our  Uves. 


Trust  not  fortune.     She  will  be 

Everything  but  true  to  thee. 

False  and  fickle  all  her  life, 

The  old  dame  has  been  the  wife 

Of  a  thousand  bridegrooms — none 

Mourned  a  day  when  he  was  gone. 

She  delights  to  desolate, 

Very  bitter  is  her  hate  ; 

And  she  hates  most  when  she  knows 

There  are  those  who  scorn  her,  those 

Who  rejoice  in  better  things 

Than  the  baubles  that  she  brings, 

Conqueror's  laurel,  crown  of  kings ! 

To  reject  these  and  be  wise 

Is  a  folly  in  her  eyes  ; 

To  be  good  is  worse  than  this, 

Since  it  shows  her  what  she  is, 

And  that  she  is  baffled,  too  ; 

For  what  is  there  she  can  do 

To  the  good  and  to  the  wise, 

Who  her  earthly  dross  despise, 

For  their  hearts  are  in  the  skies, 

Where  their  heavenly  treasure  lies  1 


392  LATER   POEMS. 

Men  seek  retreats,  and  some  retire 
To  country  houses  ;   mountains  these 
Afifect,  and  those  the  shore  of  seas  : 
Thou,  too,  dost  such  things  much  desire. 
This  is  a  mark  of  common  men, 
Which  thou,  desiring,  shouldst  refuse. 
There  is  for  thee,  when  thou  shalt  choose. 
Deeper  retirement.     Have  it,  then. 
Retire  into  thyself;    nowhere 
With  greater  quiet,  lesser  care 
Than  in  his  own  soul  man  can  be. 
The  seat  of  all  tranquillity ; 
For  rest  is  nothing  else,  I  find. 
Than  the  good  ordering  of  the  mind. 
Give,  then,  thyself  to  this  retreat 
Constantly,  and  thyself  renew ; 
And  let  thy  principles  be  few. 
But  like  the  earth  beneath  thy  feet 
Solid,  and  like  the  Heaven  serene. 
For  these  will  keep  thy  spirit  clean. 
It  will  return  not  as  it  went, 
But  free  from  every  discontent. 

Desire  of  the  thing  called  Fame, 
The  petty  wish  to  leave  a  name. 
Perhaps  torments  thee.     It  should  not. 
See  how  soon  all  things  are  forgot. 
Things  that  are  mean  and  things  sublime. 
The  chaos  of  unending  time 
Stretches  before  thee  and  behind : 
Behold  it  with  a  stable  mind. 
Know  that  applause  is  empty  ;    know 
That  who  pretend  to  give  thee  praise 
Hold  not  the  same  mind  many  days ; 
And  for  the  praise  that  flatters  so. 


"WHAT   HARMONIOUS   IS   WITH   THEE?"      393 

Tliink  of  the  narrowness  of  the  space 
That  circumscribes  it.     For  the  earth, 
The  whole  earth,  is  a  point,  and  small 
The  nook  that  is  thy  dwelling-place ; 
And  few  are  in  it ;    and  from  birth 
They  hasten  deathward,  one  and  all. 
Who  are  these  men,  and  what  their  ways. 
That  thou  shouldst  hanker  for  their  praise  ? 

What,  then,  remains?     This  there  remains, 

This  territory  of  thine  own. 

Retire  into  it,  be  alone. 

Dismiss  what  now  disturbs,  or  pains ; 

Be  strong — you  may,  be  free — you  can, 

And  look  at  all  things  like  a  man  ; 

For  know  that  things,  or  great  or  small, 

Do  never  touch  the  soul  at  all. 

And  know  that  all  which  thou  dost  see 

Changes  and  will  no  longer  be. 

Nothing  endures,  O  Lord,  but  Thee ! 


What  harmonious  is  with  thee, 
O  Universe  !    is  so  with  me, 
Nothing  too  early,  or  too  late. 
That  is  at  thy  appointed  date. 
Everything  is  fruit  to  me. 

Which  thy  seasons.  Nature,  bring  : 
All  things  from  thee,  and  all  in  thee, 

To  thee  returneth  everything. 
"  Dear  city  of  Cecropia," 

The  poet  said  its  streets  who  trod  : 
Wilt  thou  not  say — be  wise  and  say — 

"  Dear  city  of  the  living  God !  " 

o 

17* 


394 


LATER    POEMS. 

Though  thou  shouldst  live  a  thousand  years, 
Whatever  fate  gives, 
Or  what  refuses, 
Let  this  support  thee  in  thy  fears. 
Let  this  console  thee  in  thy  tears, 
Man  loses  but  the  life  he  lives, 
And  only  lives  the  life  he  loses. 
Longest  and  shortest  are  but  one  : 
Tlie  present  is  the  same  to  all ; 
The  past  is  done  with  and  forgot  ; 
The  future  is  not  yet  begun  ; 
Nothing  from  either  can  befall, 

For  none  can  lose  what  he  has  not. 
All  things  from  all  Eternity 

Come  round  and  round  the  whirling  spheres 
It  makes  no  difference  if  we  see 

The  same  things  for  a  hundred  years. 
Or  for  a  million.     They  are  here. 

Who  longest  lives,  who  shortest  dies, 
Loses  the  same  sweet  earth  and  skies, 
For  they  remain — we  disappear. 


Pain  and  pleasure  both  decay, 
Wealth  and  poverty  depart  ; 

Wisdom  makes  a  longer  stay. 

Therefore,  be  thou  wise,  my  heart. 

Land  remains  not,  nor  do  they 
Who  the  lands  to-day  control. 

Kings  and  princes  pass  away, 

Therefore,  be  thou  fixed,  my  soul. 


"THE   WHOLE   OF    THIS    GREAT   WORLD."      395 

If  by  hatred,  love,  or  pride 
Thou  art  shaken,  thou  art  wrong ; 

Only  one  thing  will  abide, 
Only  goodness  can  be  strong. 


The  whole  of  this  great  world,   I  say. 
From  the  first  to  the  last  born, 

Since  it  passes  swift  away. 
Is  not  worth  a  barley-corn. 

To  some  better  world  than  this 
Hie  thee — open  wide  the  door 

To  some  chamber — such  there  is — 
Whence  thou  shalt  depart  no  more. 


When  the  drum  of  sickness  beats 

The  change  o'  th'  watch,  and  w-e  are  old, 

Farewell  youth,  and  all  its  sweets. 
Fires  gone  out  that  leave  us  cold  ! 

Hairs  are  white  that  once  were  black, 
Each  of  fate  the  message  saith  ; 

And  the  bending  of  the  back 
Salutation  is  to  death. 


To  bear  what  is,  to  be  resigned. 
The  mark  is  of  a  noble  mind. 


596  LATER   POEMS. 

Stir  not  thy  hand,  or  foot,  or  heart, 

Be  not  disturbed,  for  Destiny 

Is  more  attached,  O  man,  to  thee 

Than  to  thyself  thou  art ! 
If  patience  had  but  been  thy  guest, 

Thy  destined  portion  would  have  come, 
And  like  a  lover  on  thy  breast 

Have  flung  itself,  and  kissed  thee  dumb  ! 


Why  should  man  struggle  early,  late, 
When  all  he  is  is  fixed  by  Fate  ? 

For  everything  that  comes  and  goes. 
Goes,  comes  at  its  appointed  date. 

The  wind  is  measured  as  it  blows, 

The  grains  of  sand  have  each  their  weight. 

Only  the  fool  can  say  he  chose 
The  woman  that  is  now  his  mate. 

And  so  with  friends  and  so  with  foes, 
The  rising  and  the  falling  State. 

'Tis  idle  to  support,  oppose. 
To  open  or  to  shut  the  gate. 

What  is  we  see  ;    but  no  one  knows 
What  was,  or  will  be,  small  or  great. 

Nothing  is  certain  but  the  close, 
And  that  is  hid  from  us  by  Fate. 


"THE   CARVER   THOUGHT."  1^7 


Old  Bishop  Ivo  met  one  day, 
As  he  went  up  and  down  the  lands, 

A  stern,  sad  woman  on  her  way, 
With  fire  and  water  in  her  hands  ; 

In  this  hand  water,  that  hand  fire. 

And  she  was  filled  with  holy  ire. 

"  What  mean  those  symbols,  Mother,  tell  ? 

And  whither  go  you  ?  "     She  replies  : 
"  To  quench  with  this  the  flames  of  Hell, 

With  this  to  burn  up  Paradise. 
Fear,  hope  must  nevermore  be  known, 
But  man  serve  God  throu^rh  love  alone." 


The  carver  thought,  the  carver  wrought, 
There  was  a  rapture  in  his  mood  ; 

He  saw  Our  Lady  in  his  thought. 
And  wrought  upon  the  sandal  wood. 

His  hand  would  not  obey  his  will, 

It  faltered  and  forgot  its  skill. 

"  No  one  will  say  who  sees  that  face, 

'  Hail,  Mary  Mother,  full  of  grace  ! '  " 

He  dropped  his  tools,  he  bowed  his  head. 
He  heard  a  voice  that  somewhere  spoke 
'*  Go,  burn  the  sandal-wood,"  it  said, 
"  And  work  upon  that  block  of  oak. 
What  one  holds  not  the  other  may, 
The  image  may  be  there  to-day." 
It  was,  and  all  who  saw  her  face 
Said,  "Mary  Mother,  full  of  grace  !  " 


398  LATER   POEMS. 

There  was  of  old  a  Moslem  saint 

Named  Rabia.     On  her  bed  she  lay 
Pale,  sick,  but  uttered  no  complaint. 

"  Send  for  the  holy  men  to  pray." 
And  two  were  sent.     The  first  drew  near  : 
"The  prayers  of  no  man  are  sincere 
Who  does  not  bow  beneath  the  rod, 
And  bear  the  chastening  strokes  of  God." 
Whereto  the  second,  more  severe  : 
"  The  prayers  of  no  man  are  sincere 
Who  does  not  in  the   rod  rejoice, 
And  make  the  strokes  he  bears  his  choice." 
Then  she,  who  felt  that  in  such  pain 
The  love  of  self  did  still  remain, 
Answered  :  "  No  prayers  can  be  sincere 

When  they  from  whose  wrung  hearts  they  fall 
Are  not  as  I  am,  lying  here, 

Who  long  since  have  forgotten  all. 
Dear  Lord  of  Love  !     There  is  no  pain." 
So  Rabia,  and  was  well  again. 


Said  Ip.n  Abi  Wakkoo,  whose  strong  bow 
Laid  from  afar  the  Prophet's  foemen  low. 
So  sure  his  arrows  in  their  deadly  flight, 
Was  smitten  in  his  age  with  loss  of  sight. 
As  he  was  led  to  Mecca,  on  the  way 
The  men  he  passed  entreated  him  to  pray 
To  God  for  them.     Whereat  his  nephew  spake, 
Feeling  great  pity  for  his  blindness'  sake  : 
"  Uncle,  to-day  make  one  thing  clear  to  mc. 
Thou  prayest  for  others,  and  God  hcareth  thee  ; 
Why  dost  thou,  then,  remain  in  this  thy  night? 
Why  not  implore  Him  to  restore  thy  sight?" 


"THERE  CAME  TO  NUSHERVAN."     399 

"  Son  of  my  brother,"  with  a  smile  he  said, 

And  laid  his  hand  upon  the  striphng's  head, 

"  If  I  see  not,  God  sees,  and  His  decree 

Is  dearer  than  the  eyes  with  which  I  used  to  see." 


There  came  to  Nushervan,  surnamed  the  Just, 

A  certain  man,  a  courtier,  with  the  dust 

Of  travel  on  him,  and  with  heart  elate. 

"I  hear,"  he  said,  "that  God  (His  Name  be  Great!) 

Has  taken  from  the  world  your  mortal  foe," 

Naming  a  king  whom  death  had  then  laid  low. 

"  And  did  you  hear,*'  the  Sultan  made  reply, 

"That  I  am  overlooked,  and  not  to  die? 

I  have  no  room  for  exultation,  friend. 

For,  like  my  rival's  life,  my  life  must  end." 

The  courtier  slunk  away,  abashed  and  sad. 

For  he  had  learned  that  good  news  may  be  bad. 


Let  me  a  simple  tale  repeat. 

As  Sadi  wrof?  it.     Thus  it  ran  : 

His  servants,  at  a  hunting  seat, 

Were  roasting  game  for  Nushervan, 

And,  as  they  had  no  salt  there,  one 

Was  sent  unto  a  village  near 

To  fetch  some.     Ere  the  man  could  run. 

The  Sultan  called  him  back.     "  Come  here. 

Take  it  at  a  fair  price,  and  see 

There  is  no  force,  lest  there  should  be 

A  precedent  established  so. 

Which  might  the  villafre  overthrow." 


400  LATER   POEMS. 

They  asked  what  damage  could  ensue 

From  such  a  trifle.     Whereupon 

He  answered  :   "When  the  race  was  new 

Oppressions  were  but  small  and  few ; 

But  as  the  years  went  on  and  on 

Every  new  comer  added  more, 

And  each  was  larger  than  before, 

Till  what  was  small  had  grown  so  great 

It  toppled  o'er  on  many  a  State, 

And  crushed  the  people  unto  dust. 

We  must  be  just."     And  from  that  day, 

Sadi,  I  think,  goes  on  to  say, 

They  surnamed  Nushervan  the  Just. 


He  needs  a  guide  no  longer 
When  he  hath  found  the  way 

That  leads  already  to  the  Friend  ; 
He  cannot  go  astray. 

He  need  not  search  for  ladders 
To  climb  with  feet  and  hands. 

When  on  the  topmost  dome  of  heaven 
His  soul  already  stands. 

No  messenger  nor  letter 

He  needs,  when  he  at  rest 
Lies  folded  close  in  favor 

Upon  the  Sultan's  breast. 
Rumi,  thou  needest  nothing  more, 

P'or  what  thou  hast  is  best. 


"WALKING   ALONG   THE   SHORE."  401 

*'  How  many,  many  centuries, 

When  Death's  long  sleep  has  closed  my  eyes, 

Mankind  will  walk  above  my  head, 

And  I  shall  never  hear  their  tread. 

My  kingdom  as  it  came  will  go, 

Another  will  possess  my  lands  ; 
They  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  and  so 

Will  pass  from   mine  to  other  hands." 

This  verse  was  written  long  ago 
Upon  the  crown  of  Kai  Khosro. 


Walking  along  the  shore  one  mom, 
A  holy  man  by  chance  I  found. 

Who  by  a  tiger  had  been  torn. 

And  had  no  salve  to  heal  his  wound. 

Long  time  he  suffered  grievous  pain, 
But  not  the  less  to  the  Most  High 
He  offered  thanks.     They  asked  him  why  ? 

For  answer  he  thanked  God  again  ; 

And  then  to  them  :   "  That  I  am  in 
No  greater  peril  than  you  see  ; 
That  what  has  overtaken  me 

Is  but  misfortune — and  not  sin." 


"  Sh.all  we,  O  Master,"  Ke  Loo  said, 
"  Still  serve  the  spirits  of  the  dead  ?  " 
"  To  serve  the  dead  why  should  we  strive, 
Who  could  not  serve  them  when  alive  ?  " 


402  LATER   POEMS. 

"Tell  me  what  death  is,"  said  Ke  Loo. 

To  whom  again  Confucius  saith  : 
"  While  life  we  do  not,  cannot  know, 

What  can  we  hope  to  know  of  death  ? " 
And  further,  since  he  still  would  seek  : 
"  Ke  Loo,  I  do  not  care  to  speak." 

"  If  you,  the  Master,  speak  not,  then, 
What  shall  your  scholars  say  to  men  ?  " 
"  Does  Heaven  speak  ?  "  the  sage  replied, 
And  as  he  spoke  his  spirit  sighed : 
"The  seasons  run  their  endless  ways, 

The  days  go  by  with  tireless  wing. 
And  all  things  come  in  all  the  days. 

But  Heaven — does  Heaven  say  anything  ?  " 


THOMAS   MOORE. 

{Afay  28,   1879.) 

A  LORD  of  lyric  song  was  born 
A  hundred  years  ago  to-day  ; 

Loved  of  that  race  that  long  has  worn 
The  shamrock  for  the  bay. 

He  sung  of  wine,  and  sung  of  flowers, 
Of  woman's  smile,  and  woman's  tear, 

Light  songs,  that  suit  our  lighter  hours, 
But  O,  how  bright  and  dear  ! 

Who  will  may  build  the  epic  verse, 
And,  Atlas-like,  its  weight  sustain  ; 

Or  solemn  tragedies  rehearse 
In  high,  heroic  strain. 


THOMAS    MOORE.  403 

So  be  it.     But  when  all  is  done, 

The  heart  demands  for  happy  days 
The  lyrics  of  Anacreon, 

And  Sappho's  tender  lays. 

Soft  souls  with  these  are  satisfied. 

He  loved  them,  but  exacted  more, 
For  his  the  lash  that  Horace  plied, 

The  sword  Harmodius  wore. 

Where  art  thou,  Brian,  and  thy  knights, 

So  dreaded  by  the  flying  Dane  ? 
And  thou,  Con  of  the  Hundred  Fights  ? 

Your  spirits  are  not  slain  ! 

Strike  for  us,  as  ye  did  of  yore, 

Be  with  us,  we  shall  conquer  still, 
Though  Irish  kings  are  crowned  no  more 

On  Tara's   holy  hill. 

Perhaps  he  was  not  hero  born. 
Like  those  he  sung — Heaven  only  knows  ; 

He  had  the  rose  without  the  thorn. 
But  he  deserved  the  rose. 

For  underneath  its  odorous  light 

His  heart  was  warm,  his  soul  was  strong; 

He  kept  his  love  of  Country  bright. 
And  sung  her  sweetest  song. 

Therefore  her  sons  have  gathered  here 

To  honor  him,  as  few  before. 
And  blazon  on  his  hundredth  year 

The  fame  of  Thomas  Moore. 


404  LATER   POEMS. 


SALVE,  REGINA. 

The  race  of  greatness  never  dies. 

Here,  there,  its  fiery  children  rise. 
Perform  their  splendid  parts. 
And  captive  take  our  hearts. 

Men,  women  of  heroic  mould 
Have  overcome  us  from  of  old  ; 

Crowns  waited  then,  as  now, 

For  every  royal  brow. 

The  victor  in  the  Olympian  Games — 
His  name  among  the  proudest  names 
Was  handed  deathless  down  : 
To  him  the  olive  crown. 

And  they,  the  poets,  grave  and  sage. 
Stern  masters  of  the  tragic  stage, 
Who  moved  by  art  austere 
To  pity,  love,  and  fear — 

To  these  was  given  the  laurel  crown, 
Whose  lightest  leaf  conferred  renown 
That  through  the  ages  fled 
Still  circles  each  gray  head. 

But  greener  laurels  cluster  now, 
World-gathered,  on  his  spacious  brow. 
In  his  supremest  Place, 
Greatest  of  their  great  race — 


SALVE,   REGINA.  405 

Shakespeare!     Honor  to  him,  and  her 
Who  stands  his  grand  interpreter, 

Stepped  out  of  his  broad  page 

Upon  the  hving  stage. 

The  unseen  hands  that  shape  our  fate 
Moulded  her  strongly,  made  her  great, 

And  gave  her  for  her  dower 

Abundant  life  and  power. 

To  her  the  sister  Muses  came, 

Proffered  their  masks,  and  promised  fame  ; 

She  chose  the  tragic— rose 

To  its  imperial  woes. 

What  queen  unqueened  is  here  ?     What  wife, 
Whose  long  bright  years  of  loving  life 

Are  suddenly  darkened  ?     Fate 

Has  crushed,  but  left  her  great. 

Abandoned  for  a  younger  face. 
She  sees  another  fill  her  place, 

Be  more  than  she  has  been — 

Most  wretched  wife  and  queen ! 

O  royal  sufferer  !     Patient  heart ! 
Lay  down  thy  burdens  and  depart ; 

*'  Mine  eyes  grow  dim.     Farewell." 

They  ring  her  passing-bell. 

And  thine,  thy  knell  shall  soon  be  rung, 
Lady,  the  valor  of  whose  tongue, 

That  did  not  urge  in  vain, 

Stung  the  irresolute  Thane 


406  LATER   POEMS. 

To  bloody  thoughts  and  deeds  of  death, 

The  evil  genius  of  Macbeth  ; 

But  thy  strong  will  must  break, 
And  thy  poor  heart  must  ache. 

Sleeping,  she  sleeps  not  ;  night  betrays 
The  secret  that  consumes  her  days. 
Behold  her  where  she  stands, 
And  rubs  her  guilty  hands. 

From  darkness,  by  the  midnight  fire, 
Withered  and  weird,  in  wild  attire. 
Starts  spectral  on  the  scene 
The  stern,  old  gipsy  queen. 

She  croons  her  simple  cradle  song, 
She  will  redress  his  ancient  wrong — 
The  rightful  heir  come  back 
With  Murder  on  his  track. 

Commanding,  crouching,  dangerous,  kind, 
Confusion  in  her  darkened  mind, 
The  pathos  of  her  years 
Compels  the  soul  to  tears. 

Bring  laurels  !     Go,  ye  tragic  Three, 
And  strip  the  sacred  laurel-tree, 
And  at  her  feet  lay  down 
Here,  now,  a  triple  crown. 

Salve,  Regina!     Art  and  Song, 
Dismissed  by  thee,  shall  miss  thee  long, 
And  keep  thy  memory  green. 
Our  most  illustrious  Queen. 


DIES   NATALIS   CHRISTI.  40/ 


DIES   NATALIS    CHRISTI. 

Not  as  of  old  they  came, 
With  harp  and  flute,  and  the  shrill  sistrum's  ring, 
Before  the  chariot  of  their  dusky  king. 

What  time  the  Sun  a-flame 
From  winter's  gloomy  solstice  did  appear, 
To  light  the  torches  of  the  coming  Year ; 
With  whom  the  priests,  with  banner  and  with  shrine, 
Past  shapes  colossal.  Sphinx  and  Pyramid, 
And  what  therein  is  hid. 
The  dust  of  early  kings,  or  lore  divine. 
Following  the  morn  in  slow  procession  while 
The  sacred  singers  clap  their  hands 
Where  great  Osiris'  statue  stands, 
Who,  lost,  is  found,  and  guards  again  the  Nile, 
Marking  the  rhythm  of  that  rejoicing  chorus 
Wherewith  they  celebrate  the  birth  of  Horus, 
The  son  of  god  Osiris,  the  happy  infant  Horus  ! 

Nor  as  the  Magi  went, 

Before  the  dawn  of  Day, 
And  clomb  the  mountains  from  whose  steep  ascent 

They  caught  the  earliest  ray. 
In  robes  as  spotless  as  their  own  desire, 
Who  silver  censers  bore,  where  burned  the  Sacred  Fire. 
Lo,  in  his  ivory  car, 
Like  some  white  cloud  inlaid  with  morning's  gold. 
The  haughty  Persian  monarch  borne  in  state. 
On  whom  his  nobles  wait. 

Fierce  satraps  tamed  of  old, 
Mounted  upon  their  camels  whose  trappings  blaze  afar. 


408  LATER   POEMS. 

The  summit  reached,  all  faces  toward  the  East, 
Puts  on  his  wreathed  tiara  the  High-Priest, 
An"?!  standing  reverent  there, 
Welcomes  the  rising  sun  with  incense  and  with  prayer. 
"Glory  to  Ormuzd  !  "  all  the  Magi  sing; 
"The  Just  Judge!     The  All-Seeing! 
The  Centre  of  all  Being  ! 
The  Universal  King  ! 
To  Mithras,  salutation  ! 
The  Never-Sleeping,  Most-Exalted  One, 
Who  from  the  golden  watch-tower  of  the  sun 
Beholds  his  fair  creation  ! 
Created  and  Creator, 
Mithras,   Mediator, 
Between  the  Good  and  111,  perpetual  Mediator  !  " 

Nor  as  the  sterner  race. 
Who,  many  gods  adoring,  most  adored 
The  strong  and  cruel  master  of  the  sword. 
Dread  Mars,  who  drove  their  legions  o'er  the  earth. 
Consented  for  a  space 

To  stoop  to  harmless  mirth. 
Rank,  like  the  robe  it  wore,  was  laid  aside, 
Master  and  slave  changed  places. 
And  slaves,  with  happy  faces. 
Went  strutting  round  the  streets  in  sudden  pride, 
Each  with  the  freedman's  cap  upon  his  head. 
Aping  patrician  airs,  and  richly  garmented. 
The  slave  was  master  now. 

The  master  waited  on  his  slave. 
What  he  demanded  gave, 
Brought  wine  when   he    commanded,  and    chaplets    for  his 
brow, 
(iifts  were  exchanged,  they  loved  who  late  had  hated. 
The  useless  sword  was  sheathed,  old  feuds  were  ended. 


DIES   NATALIS   CHRISTI.  409 

Prisoners  were  liberated, 

And  labor  was  suspended  : 
The  lowest  lorded  like  the  best, 
Enjoyed  his  scurril  jest, 
Nor  was  imperial  Ceesar's  self  offended. 

Equal,  as  in  the  years  of  old. 
When  gracious  Saturn  ruled  mankind, 
And  Earth,  untitled,  brought  forth  the  yellow  corn. 

And  all  the  gods  were  of  one  mind, 
Before  the  evil  days  were  born. 
The  happy  Age  of  Gold ! 
To  Saturn's  temple  all  repair, 
"  O  Father  Saturn,  hear  our  prayer! 
Hear,  and  help,  and  bring  again 
The  old  Saturnian  reign. 
Gracious  Father  Saturn,  the  glad  Saturnian  reign !  " 

With  other  rites  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East, 

Prophet,  and  King,  and  Priest, 

Girded  their  loins,  and  hasted  from  afar, 

Led  by  the  light  of  that  auspicious  Star 

From  Sabaean  altars  to  Jerusalem, 

Where  Herod  asked  of  them,     • 

"  Whence  are  ye  come,  and  why?" 
And  spirits  not  their  own  their  tongues  unloose  : 
"  Where  is  He  who  is  born  King  of  the  Jews? 
We  have  beheld  His  planet  in  the  sky, 
And  come  to  worship  Him." 
Then  Herod,  troubled,  called  the  Sanhedrim  : 
"Where  shall  this  Child  be  born,  this  King  appear?" 
"  From  Bethlehem,  in  Judaea, 
A  Governor  shall  come,  as  seers  foretell, 
To  rule  my  chosen  people,   Israel." 
The  Wise   Men  tarry  not  ;    for  now  the  Day 
Draws  down  the  West,  and  in  the  darkening  P^ast 


4IO  LATER   POEMS. 

Hovers  the  watchful  Star  whose  light  increased 

To  guide  them  on  their  way. 

They  followed  where  it  led, 

Till  o'er  the  Infant's  head, 
Who  wrapt  in  swaddling  bands  in  a  manger  lay, 

It  stood,  and  filled  the  place — 

Or  was  it  from  His  face 
That  more  than  Light  that  turned  the  Night  to  Day  ? 

They  knelt.     The  holy  Child 

Stretched  out  His  hands,  and  smiled. 
And  took  their  gifts,  gold,  frankincense,  and  myrrh  : 

Love,  awe,  divine  surprise 

Were  in  His  mother's  eyes, 
As  if  again  the  Angel  spake  to  her. 

The  shepherds  ran  to  see 

What  the  great  light  might  be, 
Leaving  their  flocks  untended  on  the  plain, 

And  what  the  heavenly  song, 

So  sweet,  so  clear,  so  strong. 
Of  which  they  did  but  catch  the  glad  refrain, 

Not  heard  on  earth  till  then, 

"Good-will  and  peace  to  men! 
Glory  to  God  on  high !     Good-will  and  peace  to  men  !  " 

This  is  the  Child  foretold 
By  seers  and  prophets  old  ; 
Of  whom,  in  the  beginning,  it  was  said. 
The  Woman's  seed  shall  bruise  the  Serpent's  head. 
Nor  was  the  gracious  promise  once  forgot. 
Though  man  remembered  not  ; 
For  when  the  tribes  of  Israel  went  astray. 
Bowing  to  other  gods  that  could  not  save, 
Their  young  men  captive,  and  their  strong  men   slain. 
Disconsolate  they  turned  to  Him  again, 
He  did  not  turn  away, 


DIES   NATALIS   CHRISTI.  41  I 

But,  full  of  mercy,  still  the  promise  gave, 

The  Comforter  to  them. 
There  shall  come  forth  a  rod  on  Jesse's  stem, 

A  branch  from  out  his  roots.     And  He  shall  be 
To  those  who  dwell  in  darkness  a  great  light, 
A  spirit  of  counsel  and  might 
That  shall  subdue,  enlighten,  and  set  free. 
And  Earth,  rejoiced,  shall  see. 
Outgrown  its  ancient  hate,  that  love  is  best, 
Nor  to  the  weak  the  strong  be  terrible  ; 
Together  then  the  wolf  and  lamb  shall  dwell. 
The  leopard  and  the  kid  lie  down  to  rest, 

And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them.     This  is  He. 
And  He  shall  judge  the  nations,  and  rebuke 
The  warring  sons  of  men  ; 
Swords  shall  be  beaten  into  plowshares  then, 
The  murderous  spear  into  the  pruning-hook  ; 
Nor  sword  nor  spear  uplifted  as  before, 
For  War  shall  be  no  more  ! 
Zion,  awake,  arise,  unloose  thy  bands! 
Arise,  put  on  thy  strength,  be  not  cast  down  ! 
Put  on  thy  beautiful  garments  and  thy  crown, 
And  stretch  thy  sceptred  hands 
Above  the  subject  lands. 
Revered,  beloved  of  them. 
No  captive  but  a  Queen,  supreme  Jerusalem! 
The  City  of  God  on  Earth  !     Divine  Jerusalem  ! 

Not  like  a  king  He  came, 
With  princes  and  the  powerful  of  the  Earth 
Gathered  around  his  Virgin  Mother's  bed, 
While  priestly  hands  are  laid  upon  His  head, 
And  heralds  through  the  land  proclaim  His  birth. 
And  all  the  happy  people  shout  His  name. 
Only  the  Wise  Men  knew, 


412  LATER   POEMS. 

The  Wise  Men  and  the  shephei-ds  kneeling  round, 
Immanuel  was  found, 
The  Prince  of  Peace,  who  should  the  Kings  of  Earth  subdue  ! 
These,  and  the  host  above, 
Who  sang  the  hymn  of  love, 
That  rose  triumphant  then, 
"  Good-will  and  peace  to  men  ! 
God  has  come  down  on    Earth !     Good-will   and    peace    to 
men ! " 


THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  THREE  KINGS. 
I. 

[Before  the  Inn  at  Bethlehem.     The  Shepherds?^ 

First  Shepherd. 
What  men  be  these  in  brave  array  ! 
And  who  be  they  that  follow  them  ? 
They  ride  before  the  break  of  day. 
And  soon  will  halt  at  Bethlehem. 

Second  Shepherd. 
I  know  them  not,  but  I  can  see 
That  they  are  strangers,  and,  I  guess, 
Of  noble  lineage.     They  should  be 
Kings,  or  the  sons  of  kings — no  less. 

Third  Shepherd. 
It  may  be  they  have  gone  astray. 
And  did  not  mean  to  come  this  way. 
I  will  accost  them  at  the  gate. 
Hear  what  they  say,  and  set  them  straight. 
[Enter  the  three  Kings. 
Hail,  Masters,  hail! 


THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   THREE   KINGS.        413 

First  King. 

And  who  be  ye 
That  meet  us  here  ?     We  looked  to  meet 
The  elders  who  should  wash  our  feet 
And  offer  hospitality  ; 
Not  shepherd  swains,  with  homely  looks, 
Whose  only  sceptres  are  their  crooks. 


First  Shepherd. 

True,  we  are  shepherds,  nor  the  first 
This  city  on  the  hill  hath  nursed  ; 
For  once  the  Flower  of  Jesse's  Stem 
Tended  his  flocks  at  Bethlehem. 
Thence  were  we  honored  in  the  Past, 
And  henceforth  shall  be  honored  more 
Than  ever  shepherds  were  before, 
For  we  have  seen  it  all  at  last. 

Second  King. 
What  mean  ye,  shepherds? 

Second  Shepherd. 

Hear,  O  King! 
Give  ear  unto  a  wondrous  thing. 
We  sat  and  watched  our  flocks  last  night, 
When  suddenly  the  heavens  were  bright. 
As  though  a  thousand  mornings  shone. 
Amid  that  Light  we  saw  a  Throne, 
But  not  Who  sat  thereon.     Below 
We  saw  the  angels  come  and  go. 
Glorious  and  gracious  to  behold, 
With  shining  wings  and  harps  of  gold. 
They  touched  their  harps,  and  sung  a  song, 


414  LATER   POEMS. 

So  low  and  sweet,  so  loud  and  strong, 
One  might  live  on  it  his  whole  life  long. 
We  knew  not  half  the  angels  sung. 
For  it  was  in  an  unknown  tongue  ; 
But  the  refrain  thereof  was  plain, 
(O,  may  it  never  cease  again  !) 
"Glory  to  God!"  it  ran,  and  then, 
"Good  will  on  earth,  and  peace  to  men!" 

Third  King. 
And  this  was   all  ? 

Third  Shepherd. 

A  Star  now  stood 
Above  the  heavenly  multitude. 
Higher  than  the  highest  ever  trod, 
But  far  below  the  feet  of  God. 
A  moment  stood,  then  settled  down 
And  rested  over  Bethlehem  town. 
Whereto  there  came,  as  rumor  saith, 
Along  the  road  from  Nazareth, 
A  man  and  woman,  travelling  slow. 
They  reach  the  Inn,  but  find  the  door 
Fastened.     There  is  no  room  for  more. 
Where  shall  the  way-worn  travellers  go  ? 
Only  the  stable-floor  remains, 
A  stall  for  chamber,  straw  for  bed, 
Where  he  may  rest  his  weary  head, 
And  she  endure  her  mother-pains. 

This  is  the  stable.     Enter  ye 
And  greet  the    Holy  Family. 


THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   THREE   KINGS.        415 


\In  the  Stable.     Joseph,  Mary,  the  Child  Jesus,  and  the 
Three  A'ings.] 

Joseph. 

Pray  who  are  ye  that  thus  molest 
Poor  travellers  in  their  nightly  rest  ? 

First  King. 

Sir,  take  it  not  amiss  that  we 

Have  come  unbidden  unto  thee, 

From  the  depth  of  distant  lands, 

Over  mountains,  over  sands, 

Seeking  a  Child,  whose  birth,  foretold 

By  seers  and  oracles  of  old. 

Has  long  been  sought,  and  promised  near. 

We  followed  his  Star,  and  it  led  us  here. 

Joseph. 

But  who  are  ye,  whose  looks  declare 
That  not  of  common  folk  ye  are  ? 
For,  peering  at  ye  closely  now, 
I  see  a  crown  on  every  brow. 

First  King. 

I  am  Balthazar.     My  race. 

Strong  in  war  and  swift  in  chase, 

Was  the  first  of  old  to  trace 

Motions  of  the  stars  in  Space — 

What  surrounds  the  Sun's  broad  track, 

Mystery  of  the  Zodiac. 

These  things  to  know,  not  Heaven  to  dare, 

Nor  its  jealous  Power  to  share, 


4l6  LATER   POEMS. 

Did  Nimrod  build  his  tower  on  high. 
Of  his  imperious  seed  am  I, 
King  of  Chaldea,  Balthazar, 
Who  have  sought  thee  from  afar, 
Following  thy  Child's  bright  Star, 
Bringing,  as  a  king  may  bring, 
A  present  worthy  of  a  king, 
("King  of  Jews  "  they  say  He  is. 
But  Herod  likes  it  not,  I  wis,) 
This  censer,  such  the  Magi  swing 
In  my  temple,  fetched  from  thence, 
Filled  with  precious  frankincense. 

Second  King. 

I  Melchior  am,  whose  kingdom  stands 
Beyond  the  swart  Egyptian  lands, 
Under  the  glare  of  burning  skies, 
Nubia,  which  barren  sands  enclose. 
Save  where  the  lordly  current  flows 
Of  Nilus,  and  my  mountains  rise 
Along  the  rim  of  the  Red  Sea. 
Such  treasuries  no  king  save  me 
Had  ever.     Gold  from  base  to  crown, 
There  is  not  a  river  but  washes  it  down  ! 
I  fetch  thee  gold.     This  wedge  behold. 

Joseph. 
Ah,  that  is  something  like,  now — gold  t 

Third  King. 

I  am  Caspar.     Your  wise  king, 
Solomon  o'  th'  Magic  Ring, 
Hearing  of  my  rocky  shores, 
Rich  in  gold  and  silver  ores, 


THE   MASQUE   OF  THE   THREE   KINGS.        41/ 

Sent  his  ships  across  the  seas, 

That  they  should  laden  be  with  these, 

So  his  workmen  might  adorn 

His  great  Temple,  wall  and  floor  ; 

And  what  precious  stones  are  worn 

On  the  High  Priest's  breastplate,  where 

They  flash  out  their  imprisoned  fire 

On  the  purple  stuffs  of  Tyre 

Which  are  the  curtains.     Furthermore, 

Tusks  of  ivory  white  as  milk, 

And  curious,  broidered  robes  of  silk. 

For  his  concubines  to  wear, 

Making  fairer  what  was  fair. 

These  I  do  not  offer,   sir  ; 

But  instead  a  box  of  myrrh. 

Joseph. 

That,  too,  is  something ;  for  they  say 
Its  healing  properties  are  sure. 
Moreover,  if  it  fails  to  cure, 
It  leads  to  death  the  easiest  way. 
Nay,  still  is  potent ;  for  when  death 
Has  robbed  a  man  of  his  last  breath. 
And  shut  the  doorways  of  the  head, 
We  use  it  to  embalm  the  dead. 


Mary. 

The  pain  is  ended 

Before  the  morn  : 
By  none  attended, 
The  child  was  born. 
He  lies  asleep  in  these  arms  of  mine. 
In  this  poor  stable,  among  the  kine. 
i8* 


41 8  LATER   POEMS. 

If  what  was  spoken 

Should  not  be  true, 
My  heart  is  broken, 
My  Son,   for  you  : 
For  never  till  now,  since  the  world  begun, 
Has  a  virgin  mother  borne  a  son. 

But  my  soul  rejoices. 

For,  hark,  I  hear 
The  heavenly  Voices, 
Far  off  and  near. 
They  sing  in  my  soul  as  they  sing  in  the  sky- 
Lord,  what  a  happy  mother  am  L 

No  great  king's  daughter 

So  happy  is 
When  they  have  brought  her 
Her  child  to  kiss  ; 
No  matter  from  whom  his  lineage  springs. 
For  thou,  my  Son,  art  the  King  of  kings ! 

First  King. 

He  stretches  out  his  little  hand, 
Like  one  accustomed  to  command  ; 
He  lifts  three  fingers.     There  must  be 
A  sacred  mystery  in  Three. 

Second  King. 

But  the  night  is  going. 

The  cock  is  crowing, 
The  beasts  are  stirring  in  the  stall ; 

We  must  away 

Before  the  day. 
Lest  Herod  should  discover  all. 


THE   MASQUE   OF   THE   THREE   KINGS.        419 

For  he  is  crafty,  and  I  fear 

His  messenger  has  dogged  us  here. 

[Exeunt  the  Three  Kings. 
[Enter  Sathanas. 
Sathanas. 

The  kings  have  gone,  with  all  their  train. 

But  not  to  Herod's  court  again. 

He  will  be  very  wroth  with  them, 

And  all  the  folk  in  Bethlehem  ; 

For  he  determined   has  to  slay 

All  children  that  are  born  to-day. 

XVeep,  Rachel,  for  your  children  slain  ! 

But  one  shall  live.     It  suits  me  not 

This  Child  should  perish  with  the  rest ; 

Though  death  upon  his  mother's  breast, 

Methinks,  were  better  than  the  lot 

Which  I  perceive  is  his.     For  he 

Hath  been  delivered  unto  me 

To  work  my  will  on.     Child,  prepare. 

For  1  shall  tempt  thee  everywhere — 

The  heavy  burden  thou  must  bear, 

The  awful  doubt  that  follows  thy  prayer. 

I  bring  not  incense,  gold,  nor  myrrh, 

For  I  am  not  thy  worshipper  ; 

But,  not  to  be  behind  these  Kings, 

So  lavish  with  their  offerings, 

I  have  torn  from  Eden's  Tree 

A  slip,  and  planted  it  for  thee, 

On  the  hill  of  Calvary. 

Thou  shalt  be  nailed  upon  it  there. 

By  Roman  soldiers,  high  in  the  air. 

With  a  crown  of  thorns  for  a  diadem, 

And  die  in  sight  of  Jerusalem. 


420  LATER   POEMS, 

TJie  CJiild  Jesus. 

Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan — so. 

I  know  thee,  and  myself  I  know. 

What  thou  hast  threatened  will  befall ; 

A  part  thou  seest,  but  not  all — 

Else  thou  wouldst  worship.     Nay,  thou  dost, 

And  worshipping  thou  art  not  lost  ; 

Saved  by  Him  thou  hast  withstood, 

For  thou  art  Evil — He  is  Good. 


A   CHRISTMAS   CAROL. 

Of  all  the  merry  days  of  old, 

When  merry  days  did  most  abound, 

When  cups  were  drained,  and  catches  trolled. 
And  hearty  healths  went  round. 

The  best  was  Christmas,  all  the  rest 

But  ushers  to  this  royal  Guest. 

Before  he  came,  from  out  the  wood 
The  log  was  dragged  with  noisy  mirth  ; 

With  last  year's  brand  the  baron  stood 
Beside  the  blazing  hearth  : 

Bring  in  the  Yule  log !     Light  it — more — 

Now  let  the  wide  old  chimney  roar  ! 

Within  the  hall,  with  ivy  hung, 

They  gather,  laughing,  high  and  low ; 

And  maids  are  kissed,  if  they  be  young, 
Beneath  the  mistletoe. 

If  Care  appears  each  thirsty  soul 

Will  drown  it  in  the  wassail  bowl. 


A    CHRISTMAS   CAROL.  42 1 

He  comes — he's  here  !     Let  dinner  wait 

Until  the  silver  trumpets  sound. 
The  boar's  head  is  borne  in  in  state, 

With  rosemary  garlands  crowned. 
They  sing — how  does  the  burden  go  ? 
Qui  csfis  in  convivio. 

What  suited  feudal  days  and  men 

Suits  not  a  later  day  and  race  ; 
Rank  has  abased  itself  since  then, 

Gone  is  the  pride  of  place. 
Except  when  nature  makes  them  so, 
There  is  no  longer  high  and  low. 

Put  ofif  the  crown,  put  up  the  sword, 

Abhorrent  to  the  heart  and  mind  ; 
His  equal  spirit  has  restored 

The  manhood  of  mankind. 
Wisely  we  celebrate  His  birth. 
The  benefactor  of  the  Earth. 

Wisely  and  gladly.     What  was  best 

Of  that  old  Christmas  time  is  here : 
The  merry  heart,  the  ready  jest. 

The  hospitable  cheer. 
Welcome  to  all,  the  rich,  the  poor, 


But  merrier  be  ;    the  children  hear. 
They  must  not  hear  a  sigh  to-day ; 

Dear  hearts,  they  must  not  see  a  tear, 
But  laugh,  and  romp,  and  play. 

Gayly  the  Christmas  Eve  began 

With  many  a  little  maid  and  man. 


422  LATER   POEMS. 

Looked  forward  to  for  days  before, 

And  dreamed  about  at  night,  it  comes ; 

They  gather  at  the  guarded  door, 
And  their  hearts  beat  like  drums. 

The  door  is  now  flung  back,  they  see, 

O  sight  of  sights— the  Christmas  Tree  ! 

Green  as  if  wet  with  summer  dew, 
And  fairies  there  did  late  carouse. 

Loaded  with  toys  as  if  they  grew 
On  its  enchanted  boughs. 

And  lighted  candles — what  can  be 

More  beauteous  than  the  Christmas  Tree  ? 

The  children  of  the  poor  that  night 
Hang  up  their  stockings  by  the  bed, 

For  Santa  Claus  will  surely  light 
Upon  the  roof  o'erhead. 

And  stealing  in  the  chamber  share 

His  gifts  among  the  sleepers  there. 

Be  merrier,  merrier,  young  and  old. 
Let  nothing  cloud  this  happy  day. 

Chime,  bells,  as  if  ye  never  tolled ! 
And  golden  moments  stay ! 

Fold,  fold  your  wings,  delay  your  flight, 

Prolong  this  hallowed  day  and  night. 

Beneath  the  cross,  beneath  the  spire. 
Wherever  Christian  people  meet, 

Around  the  cheerful  household  fire. 
Along  the  crowded  street. 

Blessing  has  fallen,  and  prayers  forgot 

Have  risen  from  hearts  that  knew  it  not. 


A   CHRISTMAS    CAROL.  423 

Prepare  the  feast.     Unlock  the  bin, 
Bring  out  to-night  the  generous  wine  ; 

Bring  flowers,  and  have  the  children  in 
When  you  sit  down  to  dine. 

Prepare  yourselves,  put  on  your  best, 

To  honor  every  Christmas  guest. 

The  dinner  waits,  and  so  do  we  ; 

Your  arm — this  way — find  each  his  place  ; 
The  smile  on  every  lip  shall  be 

Received  as  silent  grace. 
Be  seated  all,  draw  up,  and  then 
Fall  to  like  valiant  trenchermen. 

This  turkey  is  a  royal  one, 

A  king  on  this  alone  might  dine  ; 
The  wine — but  taste  it — bright  the  sun 

That  ripened  this  good  wine  : 
A  little  for  the  children.  Dear, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

John,  Master  George  will  take  some  wine  ; 

Be  careful  of  that  lady's  dress  ; 
Mother,  the  children  think  it  fine, 

Behold  their  happiness  ! 
Fill  up,  for  bumpers  now  I  call, 
"A  health  to  all!     God  bless  us  all  !  " 

We  are  happy.     Would  that  every  heart 

In  this  great  city,  all  the  poor 
Who  herd  together,  hide  apart, 

The  wronged,  the  evil-doer, 
The  desperate  who  shun  the  light, 
O  would  that  these  were  so  to-ni":ht ! 


424  LATER   POEMS. 

For  they  are  men  ;    the  worst  are  men, 
And  they  must  Uve,  and  they  must  die. 

Look  kindly  down  upon  them,  then, 
Our  Father,  and  be  nigh. 

Thy  hand  is  strong  to  help,  to  save. 

Thou  art  their  Judge  beyond  the  grave  ! 

Be  pitiful :    they  must  be  fed : 

O  entertain  these  guests  of  thine ! 

Give  these,  thy  hungry  children,  bread. 
Their  water  turn  to  wine  ! 

Make  them  as  happy  as  Thou  art, 

O  Love  Divine  !     Paternal  Heart ! 


A  WEDDING  UNDER  THE  DIRECTORY. 

In  the  French  Republic,  second  year, 

About  the  first  of  May, 

A  wedding  party  went  on  their  way 
Under  the  newly  budded  trees 
In  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries, 
That  was  crowded  far  and  near ; 

And  old,  and  young, 

They  chatted  and  sung, 
For  the  wind  was  mild,  and  the  weather  was  clear. 
This  newly  wedded  groom  and  bride 
Strolled  slowly  homeward,  side  by  side, 
He  holding  her  reticule  and  fan, 
And  counting  himself  a  happy  man, 
She  thinking  herself  a  happy  wife. 
And  Buddal  the  brightest  season  of  life. 
O,  she  was  fair  in  her  long  white  dress 
Of  silk,  or  satin — who  cares  which  now  ? 


A    WEDDING    UNDER   THE    DIRECTORY.        425 

With  her  yellow  curls  low  down  on  her  brow, 
Under  her  flowing  bridal  veil, 
That  made  her  look  just  a  trifle  pale, 
Pure  as  the  rose-bud  in  her  breast, 
(Ah,  little  bird,  to  have  such  a  nest 
A  picture  of  perfect  loveliness ! 

What  do  you  think  of  your  Aucassin, 

O  beautiful  Nicolette  ? 
He  is  brave  without,  and  good  within. 

And  he  will  never  forget. 
Life  is  rosy  with  him  to-day, 
As  he  struts  along  with  your  big  bouquet. 
And  his  jaunty  hat — no  cockade  there  ! 
(Does  he  think  of  the  13th  Vendimaire  ? 
No,  he  lives,  so  he  was  away. 
Or  was  not  in  the  Rue  St.   Honore  1) 
Do  you  guess  what  songs  are  singing  within 
The  half-turned  head  of  your  Aucassin  ? 
Hearken,  and  you  will  hear 
In  your  inner  ear  : 
^''Ma  Jiiie, 
Ma  douce  amie, 
Reponds  a  nics  amours. 
Fidele 
A  ceite  belle 
ye  faimerai  toujours" 

What  do  you  think  of  your  Nicolette, 

O  Citoyen  Aucassin  ? 
W^ithout  a  coy  rose-bud  coquette, 

She's  as  chaste  as  a  lily  within  ! 
The  sprays  above  her  are  not  so  sweet, 

Nor  the  day  so  debonair, 
As  she  with  her  delicate,  noiseless  feet 


426  LATER   POEMS. 

Tripping  from  stair  to  stair. 
You  lucky  fellow,  you  have  on  your  arm 
A  loving,  confiding,  perfect  charm  ! 
"  Tra  la!  tra  la!''''  her  light  heart  goes 
As  she  trips  and  skips  on  the  tip  of  her  toes. 

Her  slippers  were  made  by  Bourdon  :  her  hair 
Was  dressed  by  Leonard — Peste !     Why  do  you  smile? 

I  know  his  style. 
And,  as  Buffon  says,  the  style  is  the  man, 
The  Citoyenne's  is  a  la  Persanc. 
Do  you  know  what  pretty  chansonette 
Runs  through  the  head  of  your  Nicolette  ? 

"  ^^  le  veiix ;  car  c\'si  la  raison 

Que  je  sois  maitre  en  7na  maisoii." 
(That  elderly  person  looking  this  way 
Wrote  that  vieille  ronde  _^rt;///t?/jir— Beaumarchais. 
He  is  lifting  his  hat.     "  Merci,  Afsieu!') 
Such  is  the  song  she  is  singing  to  you  : 
But  deeper  down,  where  her  feelings  are. 
She  is  crooning  the  dirge  of  the  queen  of  Navarre, 
(See  that  she  does  it  never  !) 

"  Je  n'ay  plus  ny  pere,  ny  mere, 

Ny  sceur,  ny  frere." 

Here  she  sighs, 

And  looks  in  your  eyes. 

And  hopes  you  will  love  her  forever  ! 

What  do  you  think  of  the  happy  pair, 

O  saucy,  pert  Dorine  ? 
You  only  think  that  you  are  fair. 

And  you  know  you  love  to  be  seen. 
You  have  no  heart,  but  plenty  of  art. 
And  you  flatter  yourself  that  you  are  smart — 

Don't  be  so  quick. 
It  is  my  vile  English — "  Tu  est  chic!'''' 


A    WEDDING    UNDER   THE   DIRECTORY.       42/ 

You  are  wearing  a  love  of  a  hat,  Dorine, 

And  what  dainty  satin  shoes ! 
Whose  miniature  is  that,  Dorine, 
On  your  httle  white  neck  ? 
Do  you  run  at  his  beck  ? 
But  remember  you  still  have  something  to  lose. 
She  heeds  me  not — she  is  lost,  not  won, 
And  is  singing  a  song  of  Villon  : 

'^  Dictes  moy,  ou  ne  en  quel  pays 

Est  Flora  la  belle  Romaine, 

Archipiada,  ne   Thais 

Qui  fut  sa  cousine  ger?naine?" 

{He  sings.) 

"  Malbrough  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 

Mironton,  tnironlon,  miroiitaine; 
Malbrough  s'en  va-t-en  guerre, 

Ne  salt  quand  reviendra,^* 
And  Nicolette  hummed  the  refrain, 
And  Dorine  went  "  Tra-la-la." 

{His  friend  warns  him.) 

"■  What  are  you  doing,  and  why  so  gay, 

Georges  Cadoudal  ?     A  word  in  your  ear. 
Barras  and  Carnot  have  seen  you  here, 

Man  clicr  caniarade  at  Savenay  ! 

0  General  Cadoudal,  fly  with  your  wife, 
Madame,  beseech  him  to  save  his  life  ! 

1  warn  you,  ami,  have  nothing  to  do 

With  Pichegru  ; 
For  he  is  as  rash  as  you  arc  brave. 
Or  you  will  fall  in  the  Place  de  Gr^ve, 
Riddled  with  bullets!"     "We'll  change  the  strain," 
Said  Cadoudal,  "  with  a  new  refrain: 


428  LATER   POEMS. 

*  Cendral  Cadoudal  est  mart, 

Mironton,  mironion,  mirontaine  ; 

General  Cadoudal  est  inort, 
Est  niort  ct  enterre.' " 

'■'■  Fi  done,''  Dorine  said.     ''Mais  il  est  fort." 

And  he  was,  on  that  terrible  day. 


TWO   KINGS. 

"  Two  kings  are  dead." — Thomas  Goffe. 

I  SAW,  but  whether  it  was  in  a  dream, 

Where  Present,  Future,  Past 
Blend  and  bewilder  us,  and  strange  things  seem 

Familiar — while  they  last ; 

Or  in  the  flesh,  as  walking  in  the  street 

We  see  a  friend  or  foe — 
Who  knows  ?     I  saw  a  man  with  faltering  feet 

Who  down  a  hill  did  go. 

The  bleak  and  barren  hill  like  iron  rang 

Beneath  his  fitful  tread  ; 
The  trees  had  shed  their  leaves,  and  no  bird  sang- 

The  birds  were  flown,  or  dead. 

The  time  of  the  year  was  autumn,  and  the  hour 

The  last  that  leaves  the  light ; 
Vox  in  the  sullen  West  like  a  great  flower 

Day  faded  into  Night, 


TWO   KINGS.  429 

What  could  be  more  forlorn  than  that  hill-side, 

Where,  through  the  withered  leaves, 
That  wrinkled,  bent  old  creature  walked  and  sighed, 

That  mournfulest  of  eves  ? 

The  grief  that  looked  out  of  his  hollow  eyes 

Refused  to  be  consoled 
By  tears,  that  still  would  come,  with  heavy  sighs — 

Piteous  in  one  so  old  ! 

He  wrung  his  trembling  hands,  and  tore  his  hair, 

Then  stood  as  carved  in  stone. 
And  stared  behind  him — there  was  no  one  there, 

For  he  was  all  alone. 

"  Why  are  you  here  in  such  a  woful  plight  ? 

Why  do  you  turn  your  head, 
And  stare  so  backward  through  the  glimmering  light  ?  " 

"  Because  my  Kings  are  dead." 

"  Clearly,"  I  thought,  "  his  wits  have  gone  astray." 

And  then  to  him   1   said, 
"  Vojir  Kings — what  Kings  ?    There  are  none  here  to-day — " 

"  Because  the  Kings  are  dead." 

I  thought  it  best  to  humor  this  old  man. 

Who  like  another  Lear 
Went  wandering  down  the  hillside,  weak  and  wan, 

As  if  his  end  were  near. 

"  Tell  me  about  them.  Sire,  for  I  perceive 

That  you  are  kingly,  too. 
I  will  go  downward  with  you,  by  your  leave." 

He  smiled,  and  said,  "  You  do." 


430  LATER   POEMS. 

I  scanned  him  closer,  and,  to  my  surprise, 

He  was  not  as  before ; 
There  was  a  wild  light  in  his  laughing  eyes, 

And  he  was  old  no  more  ! 

"  O  Prince  !     O  King  !  "  he  cried  ;  but  not  to  me 

His  greeting  was  addressed. 
Nor  any  person  there  whom  I  could  see. 

"  My  master,  and  my  guest! 

Most  beautiful  art  thou  of  all  thy  race, 

Most  gracious  and  benign  ; 
The  right  to  rule  is  in  thy  royal  face, 

And  in  those  lips  of  thine. 

No  robe  is  rich  enough  for  thee  to  wear, 

What  earthly  robe  could  be  ? 
The  bright  abundance  of  thy  golden  hair 

Is  crown  enough  for  thee. 

All  things  that  thou  dost  look  on  are  made  fair. 

The  eagle's  eye  sees  far ; 
But  thy  soft  eye  sees  farther — everywhere 

It  lights  upon  a  star. 

The  feet  of  the  mountain  does  are  swift  in  flight — 

Off  like  the  wind  they  go  ; 
Thou  art  before  them  on  the  mountain  height, 

And  thou  art  first  below. 

This  to  the  eye  thou  art ;  but  to  the  heart 

Whose  pulses  beat  with  thine, 
Who  can  declare  what  happiness  thou  art  ? 

Declare,  O  Heart  of  mine  ! 


TWO    KINGS.  431 

Dear  is  the  pressure  of  a  woman's  hand, 

And  woman's  lips  are  sweet  ; 
Weak  men  by  her  caresses  are  unmanned, 

And  grovel  at  her  feet. 

But  she  is  not  the  best  of  all  good  things, 

For,  when  I  am  with  thee, 
I  love  thee  better,  O  my  King  of  Kings  ! 

And  dost  not  thou  love  me  ? 

His  presence  honors  my  poor  house  again, 

I  give  him  of  my  best  ; 
Who  would  not  give  his  all  to  entertain 

So  beautiful  a  guest  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  see  the  King  you  speak  of,   Sire." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  : 
"  Nor  I,  for  I  have  lost  my  heart's  desire, 

My  dear,  young  King  is  dead  !  " 

"But  where,  pray,  tell  me,  have  they  buried  him?" 

"  I  know  not,  but  I  guess 
That  somewhere  in  a  chamber,  hushed  and  dim, 

He  lies  in  loveliness. 

Wrapped  in  a  purple  pall,  as  if  asleep, 

His  hands  upon  his  breast ; 
And  fair,  sad  women  watch,  but  do  not  weep, 

Lest  they  disturb  his  rest. 

Right  royally  his  brother  filled  his  place, 

And  glorious  to  behold 
Was  his  tall  form,  broad  chest,  and  bearded  face, 

And  his  great  crown  of  gold. 


432  LATER   POEMS. 

No  yellow  locks  for  him,  he  wears  the  crown, 

And  can  the  helmet  wear  ; 
He  bears  a  sword  that  smites  his  foemen  down. 

Who  angers  him,  beware ! 

For  this  great  King  is  swift  as  he  is  stern, 

Nor  pity  knows,  nor  fear  ; 
He  can  see  thousands  fall,  and  cities  burn, 

And  never  shed  a  tear. 

But  war  delights  him  not,  for  he  is  wise, 

And  knows  that  peace  is  best. 
There  is  a  kindly  humor  in  his  eyes, 

And  he  can  laugh  and  jest. 

What  his  dead  brother  only  had  begun, 

(What  rare  beginnings  those  !) 
Taken  up  by  his  strong  will,  was  straightway  done, 

Cities  and  ramparts  rose. 

This  masterful  great  man,  who  was  my  King, 

And  who  was  full  of  cares, 
Had  time  to  hear  his  merry  minstrels  sing, 

And  hear  his  people's  prayers. 

Rut  he  is  gone,  the  strong,  the  good,  the  just. 

And  gone  his  golden  crown  ; 
His  sceptre  and  his  sword  are  in  the  dust. 

His  kingdom  has  gone  down. 

Low  lies  that  mighty  form  that  filled  the  throne, 

Low  lies  that  royal  head  ; 
The  race  is  ended  :  I  am  here  alone 

Because  the  King  is  dead !  " 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF    KEATS.  433 

"Thou  strange  old  man,"   I  said,   "if  man  thou  art, 

That  grovvest  so  thin  and  pale, 
I  feel  a  chillness  creeping  round  my  heart 

At  thy  accursed  tale. 

Who  art  thou?     Speak!"     He  spoke  not — was  not    there, 

If  ev^er  there,  had  flown, 
And  left  me  talking  to  the  empty  air. 

On  the  dark  hill  alone  ! 

"  I  am  the  man  whom  I  have  seen,"  I  said, 

"  I  have  my  story  told  ; 
I  have  a  wrinkled  face  and  a  gray  head. 

And  I  am  growing  old. 

I  have  outlived  my  youth,  that  was  so  dear, 

Seen  manhood  pass  away. 
And  now  have  reached  the  autumn  of  my  year, 

The  evening  of  my  day. 

For  lo,  in  the  far  West,  so  lately  red, 

There  is  no  spark  of  light  ; 
Darkness  below,  and  darkness  overhead — 

Alone,  alone  at  night !  " 


TO  THE   MEMORY  OF  KEATS. 

{On  coming  into  possession  of  /lis  copy  of  "  The  Rogue :  0; 
Guztnan  de  Aifarac/ie."     London,  1634.) 

Great  Father  mine,  deceased  ere  I  was  born, 
And  in  a  classic  land  renowned  of  old  ; 
Thy  life  was  happy,  but  thy  death  forlorn, 
Buried  in  violets  and  Roman  mold. 


434  LATER   POEMS. 

Thou  hast  the  Laurel,  Master  of  my  soul ! 
Thy  name,  thou  saidst,  was  writ  in  water — No, 
For  while  clouds  float  on  high,  and  billows  roll, 
Thy  name  shall  worshipped  be.     Will  mine  be  so  ? 
I  kiss  thy  words  as  I  would  kiss  tliy  face, 
And  put  thy  book  most  reverently  away. 
Girt  by  thy  peers,  thou  hast  an  honored  place, 
Among  the  kingliest — Byron,  Wordsworth,  Gray. 

If  tears  will  fill  mine  eyes,  am  I  to  blame  ? 

"  O  smile  away  the  shades,  for  this  is  fame ! " 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

This  man  whose  homely  face  you  look  upon, 
Was  one  of  Nature's  masterful,  great  men  ; 
Born  with  strong  arms,  that  unfought  battles  won  ; 
Direct  of  speech,  and  cunning  with  the  pen. 
Chosen  for  large  designs,  he  had  the  art 
Of  winning  with  his  humor,  and  he  went 
Straight  to  his  mark,  which  was  the  human  heart  ; 
Wise,  too,  for  what  he  could  not  break  he  bent. 
Upon  his  back  a  more  than  Atlas-load, 
The  burden  of  the  Commonwealth,  was  laid  ; 
He  stooped,  and  rose  up  to  it,  though  the  road 
Shot  suddenly  downwards,  not  a  whit  dismayed. 

Hold,  warriors,  councilors,  kings  !    All  now  give  place 

To  this  dear  benefactor  of  the  Race. 


THE  VICTORIES  OF  PEACE. 

Soldiers  !     Brave  men  that  gather  here  to-day. 
Veterans,  ye  know  what  war  is — none  so  well, 
For  you  have  faced,  in  many  a  fatal  fray, 
The  stern  arbitrament  of  shot  and  shell ; 


THE   VICTORIES   OF   PEACE.  435 

Have  seen  your  comrades,  brothers,  as  they  fell, 
Struck  out  of  life,  or  maimed  for  life.     Ye  know, 
Better  than  civic  song  like  mine  can  tell, 
Red  battle-fields  where  thousands  are  laid  low, 
The  last  victorious  charge,  the  final  overthrow  ! 

Peace  hath  her  victories  no  less  renowned 
Than  war,  and  they  more  lasting  are,  and  true ; 
With  olive-leaves,  not  laurels,  they  are  crowned. 
And  simple  tasks  and  pleasures  they  pursue. 
We  owe  these  victories  to  men  like  you. 
Strength  such  as  yours,  when  nations  are  betrayed, 
Springs  on  the  foemen — certain  to  subdue. 
Upon  the  deep  foundations  war  has  laid 
Peace  builds  her  durable  home,  and  is  no  more  dismayed. 

To  you  and  your  courageous  deeds  we  owe 
That  this  our  dear  Republic  is  not  dead. 
Crushed  like  the  Commonwealths  of  long  ago. 
For  which  in  vain  their  sturdy  children  bled. 
I  see  your  camps,  I  hear  your  martial  tread 
As  you  go  tramping  southward.     You  know  best 
What  followed,  as  the  long  months  slowly  fled. 
Drawn  battles,  victories  that  were  not  pressed, 
The    thousands    Carnage     stamped    in     Earth's     maternal 
breast ! 

Peril  and  death  awaited  you  afar. 
Heart-ache  and  apprehension  were  our  lot  ; 
We  bore  at  home  the  burden  of  the  war 
Which  never  for  a  moment  was  forgot. 
We  looked  and  sighed  for  letters — that  came  not. 
Imagined  all  dark  reasons  for  delay. 
Struck  down,  perchance,  by  some  stray  picket  shot, 
Or  in  the  sick  bed,  where  life  ebbed  away  : 
We  prayed,  we  wept,  we  died  a  thousand  deaths  each  day  ! 


436  LATER   POEMS. 

But  this  is  ended — ended  !     What  was  then 
Has  vanished  hke  a  nightmare,  and  no  more 
The  slaughter  of  our  best  and  bravest  men, 
Our  sires,  our  sons,  our  brothers,  we  deplore; 
For  now,  on  firmer  basis  than  before, 
The  up-builded  structures  of  the  State  remain. 
The  winds  may  blow  thereon,   the  waves  may  roar 
And  batter  against  the  pillars — but  in  vain  ; 
War,  baffled,  beaten  so,  will  not  return  again. 

Peace  hath  her  victories  no  less  renowned 
Than  war.     Her  ways  are  wider  ;  they  embrace 
More  than  a  thousand  city  walls  surround — 
She  folds  to  her  impartial  heart  the  Race, 
To  what  shall  I  compare  her  perfect  face. 
Benignant,  gracious,  calm  ?     No  Goddess,  she, 
Sky-born,  superior  to  time  and  space, 
But  human,  Woman — Mother,  whom  to  see 
Strengthens  their  hearts  and  arms,  and  keeps  her  children 
free. 

Pursue  the  wings  of  morning  as    she  flies 
Across  the  broad  and  peaceful  Continent, 
Under  the  endless  arch  of  summer  skies. 
To  where  the  evening  makes  her  slow  descent, 
Reddening  the  headlands  of  the  firmament, 
And  the  long  wave  that  welters  from  Japan  ; 
Tell  me  if  the  blue  heavens  were  ever  bent 
Above  a  happier  realm  since  time  began  ? 
God  gave  the  Old  World  to  kings — He  kept  the  New   for 
Man  ! 

Soldiers  !     The  peaceful  victories  of  home 
Outweigh  the  deadly  victories  of  war  ; 
No  column  consecrates  them,  no  proud  dome, 
They  cost  no  blood,  they  heal  without  a  scar. 


HISTORY.  437 

By  these  the  sinews  of  the  nation  are 
Strengthened,  not  strained,  but  kept  inviolate, 
To  grapple  with  foes  at  home,  and  foes  afar  ; 
For,  soldiers,  these  preserve,  perpetuate 
The  glory  you  restored — the  greatness  of  the  State  ! 


HISTORY. 

The  Vision  of  a  Woman  comes  to  me. 
As   1   am  walking  in  the  crowded  street  ; 
Of  more  than  mortal  mold  she  seems  to  be. 
And  bears  the  dust  of  empires  on  her  feet. 
Gathering  below  her  generations  meet. 
And  Time  before  her  strict  tribunal  stands. 
She  sits,  impartial,  on  the  judgment  seat, 
And  holds  an  iron  tablet  in  her  hands  ; 
Around  her  are  the  scribes  who  write  what  she  commands. 

Back  to  the  dim  beginnings  of  the  race, 
The  far-off,  primitive  days,  she  turns  her  eyes  ; 
She  has  but  to  will,  and  suddenly  time  and  place 
Are  brought  to  doom  before  her.     They  arise 
From  unremembered  graves,  with  bitter  cries, 
Because  their  evil  deeds  are  known  at  last, 
Their  foul  abominations,  based  on  lies; 
Ashes  in  vain  upon  their  heads  they  cast  : 
We  harden  our  hearts  against  the  unpardonable  Past ! 

Whence  came,  and  when,  the  families  of  men 
That  sparsely  peopled  earth  when  she  was  young? 
Who  can  declare  the  immeasurable  when, 
The  inconceivable,  infinite  whence  they  sprung  ? 
Much-knowing  History  answers  not,  and  the  tongue 


438  LATER   POEMS. 

Of  her  elder  sister,  Fable,  charms  no  more  : 
Gone  is  the  high  descent  to  which  they  clung, 
Children  of  gods  whom  mortal  mothers  bore  ; 
They  came    not    after   their  gods,  but    thousands  of  years 
before. 

They  left  no  history,  but  lived  and  died 
Like  the  wild  animals  round  them  which  they  slew ; 
The  woods  and  streams  their  ravenous  wants  supplied, 
To  hunger  and  to  thirst  were  all  they  knew. 
The  skins  of  beasts  about  their  loins  they  drew. 
And  made  themselves  rude  weapons  out  of  stone. 
Sharp  arrow-heads  and  lances,   to  subdue 
Their  fellow  savages,  waylaid  alone  : 
From    these    beginnings    Man    and    War   and    Woe    have 
grown . 

By  slow  degrees  their  dull  wits  were  aware 
Of  ways  less  dangerous  :  they  somehow  found 
They  need  not  track  the  wild  beasts  to  their  lair, 
And  slay  them  for  their  flesh,  for  in  the  ground 
A  power  was  that  brought  forth  the  grains  around, 
The  taste  whereof  was  good:  they  made  them  plows 
Of  flint  and  bone,  which  they  to  hurdles  bound 
With  willow  withes,  and  twigs  of  forest  boughs  ; 
Tame  creatures  they  yoke  thereto  that  break  the  sods  they 
browse. 

Others  of  these  are  shepherds,  whose  live  wealth 

Whitens  the  land  for  leagues,  a  watchful  band. 

Near  whom  the  gaunt  wolves,  baffled,  prowl  by  stealth  ; 

Their  tents  of  skins  that  summer  suns  have  tanned 

Are  pitched  where  rivers  fertilize  the  land  ; 

Young  children  part  the  curtains,  and  look  out, 

Or,  gamboling  where  their  tethered  playmates  stand, 


HISTORY.  439 

The  petted  lambs,  or  kids,  they  laugh  and  shout  : 
Nomadic  tribes  are  these,  whom  horsemen  put  to  rout. 

Before  all  these  are  Shadows,  born  of  fear 
And  hope,  that  slowly  put  on  Shapes  unknown  : 
They  seem  to  threaten,  and  they  domineer, 
Huge,  uncouth  images  of  wood  and  stone, 
Set  up  in  templed  places,  groves  that  none 
Dare  violate,  and  few  dare  penetrate, 
Save  those,  austere,  who  wait  on  them  alone, 
Gray-bearded,  reverend  men  whose  words  are  fate  : 
In  the    stead   of   their   gods    they  judge    the  people    at  the 
gate. 

The  will  of  these  high  gods  they  all  declare, 
What  power  behind  each  hideous  symbol  lies  : 
Their  wrath  must  be  appeased  by  priestly  prayer. 
Their  mutable  favor  bought  by  sacrifice. 
Lo,  where  the  smokes  of  their  burnt  offerings  rise 
Grateful  to  their  craving  palates, — kindle  more! 
They  scrutinize  the  world  with  sleepless  eyes. 
And  barken  to  the  suppliants  who  implore  ; 
They   punish   those   who   scoff,    but   they   bless    those    who 
adore ! 

If  they  have  might,  they  do  not  put  it  forth 
To  succor  their  worshippers,  nor  heed  their  tears  ; 
For  still  in  every  corner  of  the  earth 
Are  swift,  dark  horsemen,  armed  with  bows  and  spears. 
Whose  sudden  war-cries  ring  in  the  startled  ears 
Of  the  shepherds  and  husbandmen  whom  they  surround, 
Harry  and  pillage,  and  enslave  for  years  : 
Happier  are  they  whose  life-blood  stains  the  ground 
Than     those     they    drag     away,    men,    women,    children- 
bound  ! 


440  LATER   POEMS. 

To  guard  against  these  woeful  tribulations 
Tribes  band  themselves  together,  one  by  one, 
Until  the  growing  multitudes  are  nations. 
Then  chiefs  they  choose,  and  kings:  from  sire  to  son 
Their  lordly  lines  in  clear  succession  run. 
The  rustic  tills  his  pastures  as  before, 
And  drives  his  herds  home  when  the  day  is  done  ; 
The  merchant,  bolder,  sails  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
Protected,  they  forget  the  perilous  days  of  yore. 

Artificers  come,  and  industries  begin. 
The  potter  turns  his  wheel,  and  molds  his  clay  ; 
Matron  and  maid  at  whirring  distaffs  spin, 
Twisting  long  threads  of  flax  ;  and  all  the  day 
The  weaver  plies  his  shuttle,  and  whiles  away 
The  peaceful  hours  with  songs  of  battles  past  ; 
Strong  spear-heads  and  sharp  swords  wherewith  to  slay, 
And  armor-plates,  are  hammered  out  or  cast  ; 
Tents  lessen,  structures  rise,  and  cities  are  at  last. 

If  men  are  plundered  when  the  tribes  are  small, 
Slaughtered,  enslaved,  given  over  to  stripes  and  blows, 
Greater  calamities  on  nations  fall, 
For  hatred  in  the  heart  of  greatness  grows  ; 
All  powerful  peoples  are  begotten  foes ; 
Their  kings  suspect  each  other,  but  pretend 
Credence  of  what  their  lying  lips  disclose  ; 
Friendly  a  king  may  be,  but  not  a  friend. 
For  he  seeks  by  forcible  means  to  gain  a  peaceable  end. 

The  whirlwind  of  a  thousand  battle-storms 

Bursts  on  my  sight,  interminable  cloud 

Over  all  ages,  lands,  where  terrible  forms — 

Deep  Darkness  in  the  darkness — struggle  and  crowd  ; 

Furrows  below  as  though  mankind  were  plowed, 


HISTORY.  441 

Great  armies  grappling  in  the  death-embrace, 
To  whom,  unheard,  the  thunder  calls  aloud, 
Under  whom,  unfclt,  the  earthquake  rocks  the  base 
Of  the  imperturbable  Earth,  which  breeds  this  savage  race  ! 

The  Vision  of  a  Man— if  he  were  Man— 
Who  such  prodigious  armies  led  to  war, 
Who  Arabia,   Libya,   India  overran. 
And,  flaming  westward  like  a  baleful  star, 
Across  tho,  Asian  table-lands  his  car 
Drove  to  barbaric  Thrace,  where  graven  were  his 
Tremendous  deeds  on  pillars  seen  afar  : 
The  proud  inscription  underneath  was  this  : 
"  Sesostris,   King  of  Kings,   Beloved  of  Amnion  is!" 

Glimpses  of  conquerors,   imperious  ghosts, 
That  once  inhabited  tenements  of  clay  ; 
Glimpses  of  soldiery,  in  serried  hosts. 
And  of  the  encompassed  cities  where  they  lay  ; 
Of  sharp,  incessant  attacks,  day  after  day  ; 
Of  stout  resistance,  and  night-sallies  out  ; 
Of  those  who  sullenly  bear  their  dead  away, 
And  hurriedly  strip  and  bury  them— Ah,  that  shout! 
A  desperate  dash  at  gates,  a  stubborn  rally— a  rout ! 

Tumultuous  ages  follow,  awful  waves  • 

Which  the  sea  of  time  rolls  shoreward  more  and  more  ; 
No  longer  men,  but  monsters,  soldiers  and  slaves, 
Th;y  labor,  and  fight,  and  cruel  gods  adore. 
Deserts  are  where  great  cities  were  of  yore  ; 
They  camp  in  sight  of  their  ruins,  and  know  it  not. 
Other  cities  elsewhere  bear  the  names  they  bore  : 
Forgot  are  old  races,  new  ones  are  begot, 
But  there  arc  mighty  names  that  will  not  be  forgot ! 


442  LATER   POEMS. 

Out  of  the  whirling  tempest  that  overwhelms 
Kingdoms  and  empires,  ruinous  conquerors  glare  ; 
The  brows  of  some  are  bright  with  brazen  helms, 
Dinted  with  blows  ;  their  diadems  others  wear  ; 
Purple  their  robes  are,  and  their  swords  are  bare, 
And  all  drip  blood !     They  menace  Man  again  ; 
Cambyses,  Alexander,  Caesar  dare 
The  world  to  arms  against  them  ;  Tamerlane 
Comes  with   his    Tartar    horde    and    thousands   of  captives 
slain ! 

And  is  this  all  ?     These  surgings  to  and  fro 
Of  sanguinary  forces,  are  they  all? 
Enormous  rivers  of  doom  they  flow  and  flow 
Luridly,  darkened  by  terrors  that  appall  : 
Before  their  fury  nations,  races  fall, 
Swept  on  to  annihilation,  till  at  last 
Sheer  down  the  steeps  of  a  mighty  mountain  wall 
They  plunge — and  are  no  more  !     Earth  stares  aghast ! 
Are  these  iniquities,  then,  the  substance  of  the  Past  ? 

No !     In  the  Order  of  the  Universe 
They  are  only  parts  thereof, — the  smallest  part. 
For  they  have  blessed  the  world  they  meant  to  curse. 
And  have  wrested  away  their  sceptres  that  man's  heart 
Might  govern  his  lesser  brain,  and  larger  art 
Than  their?  have  created,  to  themselves  unknown  : 
Out  of  their  fertile  desolations  start 
Fresh  forms  of  life  that  are  not  overthrown. 
Benignant  growths  of  Peace  the  hands  of  War  had  sown. 

The  would-be  conquerors  of  the  Earth  were  more 
Than  they  conceived  ;  behind  their  iron  hands, 
That  smote  so  blindly  at  the  hearts  before, 
The  inscrutable  Creator  stood — and  stands; 


HISTORY.  443 

The  everlasting  Spirit  of  Good  commands, 
For  lo,  the  hands  are  folded  that  so  late 
Grappled  and  mangled  the  still -bleeding  lands 
Where  Turk  and  Muscovite  in  deadly  hate 
Struggled  to  defend  and  to  seize  the  long-sought  Golden  Gate 

Where  battle-pillars  were  planted  cities  rose, 
And  hid  the  spot  where  armies  were  interred  ; 
Above  the  graves  where  mouldering  kings  repose 
The  hum  of  busy  multitudes  is  heard  ; 
Sweet  thoughts  are  whispered,  happy  hearts  arc  stirred. 
And  hands  are  joined  with  holy  marriage  rites: 
Invisible  walls  of  Law  the  people  gird, 
Shutting  injustice  out ;  and  Art  invites 
All  that  is  divine  in  man  to  her  diviner  heights. 

Four  Shapes  she  hath.     The  first  of  these  is  Sound, 
The  melody  of  voice  and  lute  and  lyre, 
That  makes  the  feet  trip  and  the  spirits  bound  ; 
A  sister  Shape  sits  near,  but  sits  up  higher. 
Fulfilled  of  solemn  songs  and  portents  dire, 
With  sudden  and  tragic  endings,  long  foretold  ; 
Two  others,  lesser  in  the  sacred  quire. 
But  more  esteemed  of  men,  color  and  mold 
Greatness  and  glory  and  grace  that  die  not,  and  grow  not  old. 

Slowly  but  surely  in  the  shock  of  wars 
The  ample  victories  of  Peace  are  wrought. 
They  bind  up  new-made  wounds,  and  heal  old  scars, 
They  cherish  letters,  and  encourage  thought  : 
Old,  dusty  scrolls  are  to  the  daylight  brought. 
And  copied  by  pious  hands  in  convent  cells ; 
Philosophy  in  learned  schools  is  taught  ; 
Religion  summons  with  sonorous    bells, 
And  up  cathedral  domes  the  pealing  organ  swells! 


444  LATER   POEMS. 

All  this,  and  all  that  was,  and  is,  the  eyes 
Of  the  Muse  of  History  at  a  glance  behold. 
Unshaken  is  she,  whoever  lives  or  dies, 
Calm  as  a  marble  statue,  and  as  cold  ; 
Ten  thousand  plausible  lies  to  her  are  told. 
She  neither  barkens  nor  heeds,  but  guides  the  pen 
Whereby  the  truth  is  written  from  of  old. 
Austere  Observer  of  the  ways  of  men. 
What   dost    thou  think    of  us,  and  what  wilt    thou  write — 
and  when  ? 

We  stand  upon  the  threshold  of  great  things  ; 
Shall  we  cross  it,  and  possess  them  ?     O,  shall  we, 
Who  have  not  inherited  the  curse  of  kings, 
Come  under  their  rule  hereafter  ?     Shall  we  be 
Among  the  Commonwealths  that  once  were  free, 
But  soon  in  Empires  sank  ?     Shall  Man  repeat 
His  old  defeats  in  us  ?     Or  History  see 
One  race  in  whom  all  resolute  virtues  meet. 
That  will  not  stand  condemned  before  her  judgment  seat  ? 


GUESTS  OF  THE  STATE. 

{July  4,    1876.) 

Victorious  in  her  senate-house  she  stands, 

Mighty  among  the  nations,  latest  born. 
Armed  men  stood  round  her  cradle,  violent  hands 

Were  laid  upon  her,  and  her  limbs  were  torn  ; 
Yet  she  arose,  and  turned  upon  her  foes, 
And,  beaten  down,  arose, 
Grim,  as  who  goes  to  meet 
And  grapple  with  Defeat, 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  445 

And  pull  Destruction  from  her  iron  seat  ! 

When  saw  the  Earth  another, 
O  valorous  Daughter  of  imperious  Mother, 

Who  greatly  dared  as  thou  ? 
Making  thy  land  one  wide  Thermopylae, 
And  the  long  leagues  of  sea  thy  Salamis, 
Determined  to  be  free 
As  the  unsealed  Heaven  is, 
Whose  calm  is  in  thy  eyes,  whose  stars  are  on  thy  brow  I 

Thy  children  gathered  round  thee  to  defend, 

O  mother  of  a  race  of  hardy  sons  ! 
Left  plows  to  rust  in  the  furrows,  snatched  their  guns. 
And  rode  hot  haste  as  though  to  meet  a  friend, 
Who  might  be  nigh  his  end, 
Which  tJiou  wert  not,  though  often  sore  beset. 

Nor  did  they  fall  in  vain  who  fell  for  thee. 
Nor  could  thy  enemies,  though  its  roots  they  wet 
With  thy  best  blood,  destroy  thy  glorious  tree, 
That  on  its  stem  of  greatness  flowers  late. 

Hedged  with  sharp  spines  it  shot  up  year  by  year, 
As  if  the  planets  drew  it  to  their  sphere, 
The  quick  earth  spouting  sap  through  all  its  veins, 

Till  of  the  days  that  wait 
To  see  it  burst  in  bloom  not  one  remains. 
Not  so  much  as  an  hour, 
For,  lo,   it  is  in  flower, 
Bourgeoned,  full  blown  in  an  instant  !     Tree  of  trees, 
The  fame  whereof  has  flown  across  the  seas, 
Whereat  the  elder  sisters  of  the  race 
Have  hastened  to  these  walls, 
These  vast  and  populous  halls, 
To  look  on  this  Centurial  Tree, 
And  to  strike  hands  with  thee, 
And  see  thy  happy  millions  face  to  face. 


446  LATER   POEMS. 

First  comes,  as  nearest,  an  imperial  dame, 

Named  for  that  king's  fair  daughter  whom  Jove  bore 
Through  the  blue  billows  to  the  Cretan  shore, 
Where  she  its  queen  became. 
Parent  of  many  peoples,  strong  and  proud, 

Comes  Europe  in  her  purples,  peaceful  here  : 
Her  great  sword  sheathed,  and  rent  the  battle-cloud 
Wherewith  her  kings  surround  her, 
The  chains  that  long  have  bound  her 
Concealed,  though  clanking  loud. 

As  stately  she  draws  near. 
?Iither  Europe,  great  and  mean, 
Ilalf  a  slave,   and  half  a  queen, 
Hear  what  words  are  to  be   spoken. 
What  the  Present  doth  foretoken. 
Hear,  and  understand,  and  know. 
As  did  our  wiser  Mother  a  hundred  years  ago. 

England,  our  Mother's  Mother!     Come,  and  see 
A  greater  England  here  !     O  come,  and  be 

At  home  with  us,  your  children,  for  there  runs 
The  same  blood  in  our  veins  as  in  your  sons  ; 
The  same  deep-seated  love  of  Liberty 
Beats  in  our  hearts.     We  speak  the  same  good  tongue  : 
Familiar  with  all  songs  your  bards  have  sung, 
Those  large  men,  Milton,  Shakespeare,  both  are  ours. 
Come  from  the  shadow  of  your  minster  towers, 

Vast,  venerable,  from  your  storied  domes, 
Where  Glory  guards  the  ashes  of  the  Great, 

And  your  baronial  halls,  and  cottage  homes  : 
Hither,  and  learn  what  constitutes  a  State. 
Not  royal  rulers,  who  inherit  Power, 

Which  otherwise  they  never  had  attained. 
Torn  from  the  world  in  some  disastrous  hour 

By  violent  kings,  whose  hands  with  blood  were  stained. 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  447 

Nor  dukes,  nor  carls,  who  trace  their  pedigrees 
Through  tortuous  hnes  to  some  old  ancestor, 
Who  was  a  yeoman  then, 
But  who  became  the  instrument  of  these, 
And  was  ennobled,  and  was  man  no  more  : 
Not  lords,  and  kings— but  men  ! 
England  of  Sidney,  Vane, 
\Vhat  we  received  from  you,  receive  from  us  again  ! 

Next  come  those  neighbors  twain. 
Fair,  fickle,  courtly  France,  and  sombre  Spain. 

Shorn  of  her  ancient  strength,  but  potent  still, 
From  her  great  wall-girt  city  by  the  Seine, 

Shattered  by  hard  beleaguerment,  and  wild  ire 

That  sacked  and  set  her  palaces  on  fire, 

Pulled  down  her  pillared  Column  in  disdain, 
Most  apt  for  all  things  ill  ; 

From  her  green  vineyards,  ripening  in  the  sun 
On  southern  slopes  their  misted,  purple  blooms. 
From  cunning  workshops,  and  from  busy  looms, 
And  where  her  princely  painters  ply  their  Art, 

Artificer  and  Artist,  both  in  one. 

Tempter  and  Tempted,  Syren  of  mankind, 
Of  many  minds,  but  not  the  stable  mind, 
Keen  wit  and  stormy  heart  : 

With  blare  of  trumpets  and  with  roll  of  drums 

She  comes  triumphantly— France  comes  ! 

Spain,  with  a  grave  sedateness. 
That  well  befits  her  old  renown  and  greatness, 
When  she  put  boldly  forth  to  find  a  world, 
Found  it,  and  pillaged  it,  and  with  flags  unfurled. 
Sailed  in  her  galleons  homeward,  red  with  blood, 
But  wealthy  with  her  spoil  ;   nor  did  the  flood 


448  LATER    POEMS. 

Engulf  her  for  her  cruelties,  blessed,  not  banned, 
By  him  who  holds  the  keys  of  Peter  in  his  hand  ! 
They  came  not  to  bring  peace  here,  but  a  sword, 
Sharp  followers  of  the  meek  and  loving  Lord, 
Whom  priests  and  monks  were  riding,  and  still  ride. 
Cowls  over  crowns,  and  over  all  the  pride 
That  arrogates  to  know  the  will  of  God, 
Holding  alike  His  sceptre  and  His  rod. 
Lighting  at  once  the  censer,  and  the  fires 
Wherein  the  poor  wretch  Heresy  expires  ! 
Tc  Deiims  then,  but  now — 
But  thou  dost  well  to  bow, 
And  cross  thyself,  and  mutter  Aves.     We, 
Who  know  not  thy  temptations,  cannot  know 

What  their  punishment  should  be  ; 
But  Heaven  adjusted  vengeance  long  ago, 
When  the  New  World  passed  from  thee  ! 

Three  follow.     Deadly  feud 
Two  cherished  many  years  ; 
For  one  was  held  in  bitter  servitude. 
And  flouted  for  her  tears. 

But  she  has  risen  victorious,  and  is  crowned 
Among  the  nations,  with  one  foe  remaining, 
Powerless,  except  in  curses,  and  complaining, 
And  spiritual  thunders  that  not  now  confound. 

Controlling,  where  he  can. 
The  consciences  of  the  living,  souls  of  the  dead, 

Vicegerent  of  High  God  in  puny  man  ; 
More  arrogant  than  She  who  sat  of  old 

On  her  Seven  Hills,  where  altar  smokes  up-curled, 
Hungry  for  blood  and  gold, 
Sleepless,  and  ever  mailed  and  helmeted, 
Whose  legions  scourged  the  World  ! 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  449 

Free  Italy  comes  hither, 

Bringing  with  her 
The  memory  of  her  glorious,  great  dominions, 
What  time  her  eagles  swept  with  iron  pinions 
Three  Continents,  and  her  conquerors  came  home, 
Followed  by  fallen  kings,  the  slaves  of  Rome  ; 
The  memory  of  her  patriots  and  sages, 
That  burned  like  watch-fires  through  the  long,  dark  ages  : 
Grave  senators,  stout  captains,  famous  men 

Who  wielded  sword  and  pen  : 
Tasso,  Boccaccio,  the  stern  Florentine, 
With  other  children  of  her  royal  line. 

Who  govern  the  soul  and  heart 

With  Music,  Song,  and  Art ! 

Austria,  who  wears  the  crowns  of  divers  lands. 
Snatched  from  pale  brows  in  battle  by  red  hands  ; 
Haught  mistress  of  old  peoples,  Serb  and  Slave, 
Bohemian,  Styrian,  stalwart  Tyrolese, 
W^hom  now  she  must  provoke  and  now  appease  ; 
From  where  the  waters  of  the  Danube  lave 
Vienna's  walls,  and  winding  past   Komorn 

Flow  southward  down  through  Hungary  to  the  sea  ; 
And  where  her  chamois-hunters  wind  the  horn 
Along  the  Rhetian  Alps,  she  comes,  elate, 
Peaceful,  and  prosperous,  hither.     May  she  be 

A  civic  nation,  with  a  happier  fate 
Than  fell  on  her  at  Sadowa  !     O  may  she 
Be  lenient,  juster,  wiser  than  before, 
Mother,  and  not  Oppressor, 
Redresser,  not  Transgressor, 
And  her  black  eagles'  talons  rend  no  more  ! 

But  who  is  she  comes  with  her,  with  such  a  mountain  air, 
And  singing  on  her  way, 


450  LATER    POEMS. 

A  simple  spray  of  edelweis  in  her  abundant  hair, 

A    cold    light    in    her   bright,  blue    eyes,    like    that    of 
winter  day, 
Steady,    but    sparkling,    like    her    lakes,  which    Heaven 

stoops  down  to  see. 
And  sees  itself  so  clearer  ?     Who  may  the  maiden  be  ? 
No  maiden,  but  a  matron,  mother  of  sturdy  men. 
Whose  lion  spirits  Nature  with  independence  fills, 
Walled  in  with   kingdoms,  empires,  and  the    everlast- 
ing hills. 
Perhaps  they  have    been    conquered  :  but  tell    us    where 

and  when. 
Not  where  her  Arnold  grasped  the  Austrian  spears. 

Nor  when  the  Tuileries  gave  up  its  king. 
And  they  were  hacked  in  pieces !     All  the  years 
Have  seen  them  dying,  dying, 
But  never  flying, 
Unless  they  followed  Victory's  crimson  wing  ! 
As  peaceful  as  the  bosom  of  their  lakes, 

As  rugged  as  the  Alps  which  are  their  home, 
Along  whose  granite  feet  their  rivers  foam, 
As  dreadful  as  the  thunder  when  it  shakes 
Its  lightnings  over  Jura!     Heart  and  hand 
Welcome  the  sole  Republic — Switzerland. 

With  these  come  other  three. 
One  kingdom  and  two  empires,  all  at  peace. 
But  dreaming  of  new  warfare.     Who  shall  say 
Wl^en  they  may  draw  their   million    swords,  and    slay 
The  poor,  unpitied  peoples  ?     What  release 

These  have  from  them,  and  what  the  end  may  be? 

Six  years  of  doubtful  greatness,  hardly  won,    - 
Hath  She  possessed,  and  guarded  day  and  night, 
Forging  huge  cannon,  in  her  grim  delight, 


GUESTS    OF   THE   STATE,  45 1 

To  do  (mistaken  !)  what  can  not  be  done. 
The  weak  will  band  against  her  when  she   becomes   too 
strong, 
The  strong  will  fall  upon    her  when    she   becomes    too 
weak, 
And  none  will  plead  for  her  who  smote  them  long, 

Nor  will  her  children  turn  the  over-smitten  cheek. 
They  sow  but  ill  who  sow  the  seeds  of  hate, 
For  while  the  harvests  grow,  the  reapers  wait. 
Another  Jena  may  efface  Sedan, 
And   Kaiser  (grant  it,   God!)  give  place  to  Man. 
She  should  be  greater  in  good  things  than  they 
Who  sit  on  thrones  about  her,  Pope  and  Czar, 
For  she  was  born  beneath  a  better  star. 
And  had  good  men  to  guide  her  on  her  way. 
"  Iron  and  blood"  are  curses 
That  hatch  out  sure  reverses  : 
For  Conquest  flies  from  Carnage,  which  she  brings. 
Borne  down  in  the  lost  battle  by  its  tremendous  wings  ! 
Be  greater  than  thy  neighbors,   Germany, 
Severe  step-mother,  whom  thy  sons  forsake 
For  peace  and  freedom  elsewhere.     Glory  lies 
Not  in  thine  arms,  but  arts,  in  what  is  wise 
Among  thy  thinkers,  scholars,   who  partake 
Of  a  larger  nature  than  belongs  to  thee. 
Better  the  land  whose  battles  Luther  fought 

Than  that  of  Frederick,  misnamed  the  Great  ; 
To  which  the  deaf  Beethoven,  barkening,  brought 
God's  chapel  music  ;    for  which  Goethe  thought  ; 
A  prosperous  People,  not  a  powerful  State  ! 

But  who  is  she,  woman  of  northern  blood. 
With  fells  of  yellow  hair  and  ruddy  looks, 

Berserker  wife,  with  many  an  ocean  son  ? 

Her  robe  is  hemmed  with  mountains,  fringed  with  fiords, 


452  LATER   POEMS. 

With  scattered  islands  sown  like  pearls  thereon, 
Rivers  therein  as  plentiful  as  brooks. 
Her  feet  are  in  the  seas,  and  arctic  birds 
Hover  and  scream  about  her  ;    on  her  brow 
The  shadows  of  great  pine  woods  :    like  the  flood 
Enters,  and  like  the  pine  stands  Sweden  now  ! 

Towering  above  and  dwarfing  these  a  Shape 
Enormous  and  portentous.     She  looks  down 
And  captives  with  her  smile,  and  with  her  frown 
Destroys,  till  none  escape. 
Her  head  in  arctic  winters,  she  looks  round. 

Westward  and  eastward,  from  the  wild  White  Cape, 
Across  Siberian  wastes  to  Behring  Strait. 
In  the  far  distance  her  sharp  eyes  are  glancing 
To  where  her  feet  are  stealthily  advancing. 
On  peoples  whom  her  Cossacks  will  surround, 
On  kings  they  will  unking,  and  temples  great 
Whose  gods  they  will  destroy,  or  mutilate. 

Despite  the  many  hands  that  smite  no  more. 
Southward,  to  where  the  mountain  passes  lead 

To  India  ;    from  her  red  Crimean  shore. 
Where  she  beheld  in  rage  her  children  bleed, 
Southward,  along  the  waters,  till  she  sees 
Minarets  and  mosques, 
Green  gardens,  cool  kiosks, 
Seraglios,  where  the  Sultan  lolls  at  ease — 

She  scarce  can  keep  her  hands  off,  for  her  hands 
Pluck  empires  from  her  pathway  !     She  commands 
Her  myriads,  they  obey :    her  shadows  darken 
Europe,  Asia,  who  to  her  whispers  harken, 
Dreading  her  voice  of  thunder. 
And  the  foot  that  tramples  them  under — 
So  comes  imperious  Russia  !     Giantess 

With  thin  spots  in  her  armor,  forged  too  fast 


GUESTS   OF  THE   STATE.  453 

Of  outworn  breastplates  of  old  generations, 
Her  strength  enfeebled  by  sparse  populations, 

Nomadic  in  the  steppes  :    if  she  were  less 
She  would  be  greater ;    she  has  grown  too  vast. 
What  does  she  see  within  her  and  without  her  ? 
What  guards  has  sovereign  Nature  set  about  her? 
Above  an  icy  ocean,  and  below 
Innumerable  streams  that  come  and  go, 
Through  wildernesses,  and  unherded  plains, 
Long  mountain  ranges,  where  the  snow  remains. 
And  mocks  the  short-lived  summer,  penal  mines, 
Where  poor,  enslaved,  rebellious  Poland  pines, 
Chastising  armies  on  her  wide  frontiers. 
Where,  imminent.  War  appears  ! 

These  things,  O  Russia!    are  thy  weakness,  these 
Thy  hard  misfortune  ;    nor  can  all  thy  state 
Their  terrible  force  abate. 

Nor  thy  great  cities,  nor  thy  navied  Seas, 

Colossal  Sister,  whom  we  welcome  here 

To  these  high  halls  in  this  Centurial  Year  ! 


Who  is  this  Woman  of  majestic  mien  ? 
More  than  woman,  less  than  Queen, 

Her  long  robe  trailed  with  the  dust 
Of  the  old,  ruined  cities  wherein  she 
Sate,  abject,  head  bowed,  in  dead  apathy. 

Till  some  young,  cruel  hunter,  spying,  thrust 
(Half  in  anger,  half  in  play,) 
His  sharp  spear  at  her  as  he  rode  that  way, 

Grazing  her  heart,  till,  startled  back  to  life, 
She  rose,  and  fled,  and  hid  among  the  tombs. 

Safer  where  gaunt  hyenas  were  at  strife. 
Than  where  men  were  !     O  wretched  and  forlorn ! 
Why  art  thou  living  ?     O  why  vvert  thou  born  ? 


454  LATER    POEMS. 

Where  are  the  many  crowns  that  thou  hast  worn. 
Discrowned  One,  and  the  many  sceptres  where  ? 
Thy  face  is  furrowed,  furrowed,  and  thy  hair 
(Still  golden)  is  disheveled  !     O  what  dooms 
Have  fallen  upon  thee !     O  what  suns  are  set ! 
Thy  far  eyes  see  them  yet. 
The  light  of  lost  dominion  lingers  there, 

The  melancholy  evening  of  regret ; 
And  in  thine  ears  what  voices  of  despair, 

The  wailings  of  thy  myriad  children  slain 
By  Mede  and  Roman,  Turk  and  Tartar  hordes, 
The  rush  of  onset  and  the  din  of  swords, 
Gengis,  and  Bajazet,  and  Tamerlane  : 
Weep,  Asia,  weep  again  ! 
Another  in  thy  place. 
So  suddenly  we  did  not  see  thee  go  ; 
Thou  wert,  and  here  she  is  !     If  there  was  woe. 

There  is  no  trace  thereof  in  her  untroubled  face. 
Who  can  declare  the  stature  of  this  Woman, 
The  simple  light  of  wonder  in  her  eyes, 
The  strange,  mysterious  gloom  that  deeper  lies, 
And  whether  she  be  Godlike,  or  be  Human  ? 
Unhusbanded,  and  primitive  ; 
But  now,  behold,  her  children  live. 
Crowding  about  her  knees,  the  Mother  of  the  Race! 
Tents  arise,  and  flocks  are  fed, 
And  men  begin  to  bury  dead. 
O  Shepherdess,  thy  sons  depart, 

The  tents,  the  flocks,  and  where  they  were  | 
Cities  gather,  and  thou  art 

No  Shepherdess,  but  Worshipper. 
For  round  thee  exhalations  rise, 
Which  men,  beholding,  straightway  say, 
"  Lo,  these  are  Gods!"  and  go  their  way, 
And  carve  in  wood,  and  mold  in  clay. 


GUESTS   OF  THE   STATE.  455 

And  cut  in  stone  rude  images 
Hideous  thereof,  and  bow  to  these, 
Thou  being  their  Priestess,  both  when  they 
Bring  their  first-fruits  and  on  the  altars  lay, 

And  when  their  yearling  lambs  they  sacrifice 
To  Gods  that  know  not  of  it,  nor  any  thing. 

The  ruler  at  the  gate  is  now  a  king, 
Has  armed  men  and  horsemen,  and  is  to  battle  gone, 
Headed  and  goaded  on  by  thee,  O  more  than  Amazon, 
Whose   once  white    robe    is    purple,  whose    strong   right 
hand  is  red — 

Heap  ashes  on  thy  head, 
Thou    dark,    infuriate    Mother,    whose    children's    blood    is 
shed  ! 
Who  shall  declare  her,  from  her  garment's  hem 
To  the  tall  towers  of  her  great  diadem, 
Goddess  !     Gone  again — 
For  here  poor,  ruined  Asia  weeps,  and  weeps  in  vain  ! 

With  her  are  certain  of  her  peoples — they 

Who  dwell  in  far  Cathay  ; 
They,  neighboring,  who  their  island  empire  hold ; 

They,  less  remote,  more  old, 

Who  live  in  sacred  Ind. 

What  shall  we  call 

This  Curious  One,  who  builded  a  great  wall. 

That,  rivers  crossing,  skirting  mountain  steeps, 

Did  not  keep  out  but  let  in  the  Invader ; 

Who  is  what  her  ancients  made  her ; 

Who  neither  wholly  wakes,  nor  wholly  sleeps. 

Fool  at  once  and  sage. 
Childhood  of  more  than  patriarchal  age  ? 
With  twinkling,  almond  eyes,  and  little  feet, 
She  totters  hither,  from  her  fields    of  flowers, 


456  LATER   POEMS. 

From  where  Pekin  uplifts  its  pictured  towers, 
And  from  the  markets  where  her  merchants  meet 
And  barter  with  the  world.     We  close  our  eyes, 
And  see  her  otherwise. 
(Perhaps  the  spell  began 
With  the  quaint  figures  on  her  painted  fan.) 
At  first  she  is  a  Land, 
A  stretch  of  plains  and  mountains,  and  long  rivers, 
Down  which  her  inland  tribute  she  delivers 

To  the  sea  cities  :  where  a  child  may  stand, 
A  man  may  climb,  plants  are,  and  shrubs,  and  trees  ; 
Arable  every  where, 
No  idlers  there 
In  that  vast  hive-world  of  industrious  bees. 
Now  she  is  many  persons,  many  things, 

The  little  and  the  great  ; 
The  Emperor  plowing  in  the  Sacred  Field, 

What  time  the  New-Year  comes  in  solemn  state  : 
A  soldier,  with  his  matchlock,  bow,  and  shield, 

Behind  the  many-bannered  dragon  wings  ; 
A  bonze,  where  the  high  pagodas  rise. 

And  Buddha  sits,  cross-legged,  in  rapt  repose  ; 
A  husbandman  that  goes 
And  sows  his  fields  with  wheat, 
And  gathers  in  his  harvests,  dries  his  tea ; 
Hunter,  from  whom  the  silver  pheasant  flies ; 

Boatman,  whose  boat  floats  downward  to  the  sea ; 
Sailor,  whose  junk  is  clumsy  ;  woodman,  who 
Cuts  camphor-trees,  and  groves  of  tall  bamboo ; 
Gardens,  where  flowers  and  fruits  together  grow, 
The  banyan  and  pomegranate,  and  the  palm. 
And  the  great  water-lily,  white  as  snow  ; 
Rivers,  with  low  squat  bridges  ;  every  where 

Women  and  children  ;  beardless  men,  with  queues, 
In  tunics,  short  wide  trowsers,  silken  shoes, 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  457 

Some  with  the  peaked  caps  of  Mandarins  ; 

Behold  the  ruby  button  burning  there, 
And  yonder  severed  head  that  ghastly  grins  ; 

Old  hill-side  tombs,  where  mourners  still  repair  ; 
Innumerous  Bustle,  immemorial  Calm — 
And  this  is  China ! 

She 
Who  follows  quickly — if  she  woman  be — 
Is  clad  in  a  loose  robe,  whose  flowing  folds 
Mold  out  the  shape  they  cover,  and  discover 
To  the  eye  of  lord  and  lover, 
The  strong  limbs,  girdled  waist,  the  arm  that  holds 
Her  island  children,  and  the  breasts  that  feed. 
Woman  and  mother,  why  that  manly  stride, 
And  the  two  swords  at  thy  side  ? 
Offended  or  defended,  who  must  bleed? 
Her  face  is  posvdered,  painted,  and  her  hair. 

Drawn  high  above  her  head,  with  pins  of  gold 
Is  fastened  :  if  light  olive  tints  are  fair. 
Fair  is  her  oval  face,  though  over-bold. 
Good-humor  lights  it,  frankness  and  the  grace 
Of  high-born  manner,  honor,  pride  of  place  : 
But,  looking  closer,  keener,  we  discern 
Something  that  can  be  stern. 
Like  the  dark  tempest  on  her  mountain  highlands, 
The    wild    typhoons    that    whirl    around     her    thousand 
islands  ! 
Most  bounteous  here,  as  in  her  sea-girt  lands. 
Where  she  stretches  forth  her  hands, 
Plucks  cocoas  and  bananas  in  woods  of  oak  and  pine, 

Grapes  on  every  vine, 
And  walks    on    gold    and    silver,  and    knows    her    power 

increased, 
Nor  fears  her  nobles  longer — the  Lady  of  the  East ! 
20 


458  LATER   POEMS. 

What  words  of  what  great  poet  can  declare 
TJiis  woman's  fallen  greatness,  her  despair, 
The  melancholy  light  in  her  mild  eyes  ? 
She  neither  lives — nor  dies  ! 
First-born  of  Earth's  First  Mother,  she  gave  birth 
To  the  infant  races,  and  her  dwelling-place 
Cradled  the  young  religions  :  face  to  face, 
Her  many  gods  and  children  walked  the  Earth. 
(Who  could  know,  when  Life  began. 
Which  was  God,  and  which  was  Man  ?  ) 
Her  mountains  are  the  bases  of  the  sky, 
Where  the  gods  brooded,  uncrcate,  eternal, 
Celestial  and  infernal, 
Lidra  every  where,  and  Siva  nigh — 
Thunder  voice  that  in  the  summer  speaks. 
Shadow  of  the  wings  that  fly, 

Arrow  in  the  bended  bow! 
Did  they  wander  down  the  mountain  peaks, 
Through  the  clouds  and  everlasting  snow  ? 
Or  did  men  clamber  up,  and  fetch  them  down  below  ? 
Who  may  know 
What  their  heads  and  hands  portend. 
What  the  beasts  whereon  they  ride. 
And  whether  these  be  deified  ; 
What  was  in  the  beginning,  and  shall  be  in  the  end  ? 
What  matter  ?     Things  like  these, 
Struggles  to  ascend  the  ladder  of  the  air, 
Plunges  to  reach  unbottomed  mysteries. 
Have  been  thy  ruin,   India,  once  so  fair. 
So  powerful,  prayerful !     Hands  that  clasp  in  prayer 
Let  go  the  sword  and  sceptre  :  thou  hast  seen 
Thine  roughly  wrested  from  thee,  and  hast  been 
A  prey  to  many  spoilers,  some  thine  own. 
Timor  proclaimed  himself  thy  Emperor ; 
And  Baber  conquered,  beaten  thrice  before  ; 
And  Nadir  took  thy  glorious  Peacock  Throne  ; 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  459 

And  others,  Hindoo,  Moslem,  self-made  kings, 
Carved  out  rich  kingdoms  from  thy  wide  domains, 
Had  violent,  bloody  reigns. 
And  perished  (the  gods  be  thanked !)  like  meaner  things. 
If  meaner,  crueler  in  thy  forests  be, 
Among  the  wolves  and  jackals  skulking  there. 
And  dreadful  tigers  roaring  in  their  lair. 
Than  these  foul  beasts  that  so  dismembered  thee  ! 

O  Mortal  and  Divine  ! 
The  largeness  of  the  primiti\  e  world  is  thine  ! 
The  everlasting  handywork  remains, 
In  the  high  mountain  ranges,  the  broad  plains, 
The  wastes,  and  vast,  impenetrable  woods, 

(Oppressive  solitudes 
Where  no  man  was,)  the  multitudinous  rivers — 

The  Gods  were  generous  givers. 
If  from  the  heavenly  summit  of  Meru, 

Beyond  all  height,  they  sent  the  Ganges  down. 
Or  is  it.  Goddess,  from  thy  mountained  crown, 
Far-lifted  in  the  inaccessible  blue. 
Its  waters,  rising  in  perpetual  snow, 
Come  in  swift  torrents,  swollen  in  their  flow 
By  larger  rivers,  others  swelling  them. 
All  veins  to  this  long  stem 
Of  thy  great  leaf  of  verdure  ?     Sacred  River, 
That  from  Gangotri  goest  to  the  Sea, 

Past  temples,  cities,  peoples.  Holy  Stream, 
Whom  but  to  hear  of,  wish  for,  see,  or  touch, 
Bathe  in,  or  sing  old  hymns  to,  day  by  day, 
Whom  but  to  name  a  hundred  leagues  away. 
Was  to  atone  for  all  the  sins  committed 
In  three  past  lives,  (for  Vishnu  so  permitted,) 
O  Ganges  !  would  the  Powers  could  re-deliver 
Thy  virtues  lost,  or  we  renew  the  dream  : 
We  can  restore  so  much, 
India,  we  cannot  yet  relinquish  Thee  ! 


460  LATER   POEMS. 

A  Vision  of  a  Cloud, 
Remote,  but  floating  nearer,  looming  higher  ; 
Movements  therein  as  if  of  smothered  fire, 
And  voices  that  are  neither  low  nor  loud. 
A  Vision  of  a  Shadow,  stooping  down. 

Or  rising  up  :  we  first  behold  the  feet. 
Then  the  huge,  grasping  hands  ;  at  last  the  frown 

On  what  should  be  the  face  of  this  Afreet. 
A  Vision  of  a  Form  that  lies  supine, 

Feet  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  elbow  leaning 
On  a  green  Atlantic  cape,  with  nothing  screening, 
Not  even  a  lifted  palm-leaf,  the  fierce  shine 

Of  summer  from  its  blinking,  blinded  eyes, 
The  hot  sirocco  from  its  desert  brain. 

Which  a  great  Sea  cannot  cool  :  supine  it  lies — ■ 
If  chained,  it  hugs  the  chain  ! 
Its  head  is  on  the  mountains,  and  its  hands 

Fumble  in  its  long  slumber  and  dull  dreams  ; 
They  finger  cowries  in  the  briny  sands. 

And  dabble  in  the  ooze  of  shrinking  streams. 
What  happens  around  it  neither  hears  nor  heeds, 
Awake  or  sleeping  :  over  it  lizards  crawl. 
The  desert  ostrich  scampers  in  its  face. 
The  hippopotamus  crushes  its  river  reeds. 

Locusts  consume,  lions  tear  :  it  lies  through  all — 
Most  brutish  of  the  Race ! 

A  Vision  of  a  River,  and  a  Land 

Where  no  rain  falls,  which  is  the  river's  bed. 
Through  which  it  flows  from  waters  far  away. 
Great  lakes,  and  springs  unknown,  increasing  slow. 
Till  the  midsummer  currents,  rushing  red, 
Come  overflowing  the   banks  day  after  day. 
Like  ocean  billows  that  devour  the  strand, 
Till,  lo,  there  is  no  land. 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  461 

Save  the  clifts  of  granite  that  inclose  their  flow, 

And  the  waste  sands  beyond  ;    subsiding  then 

Till  Earth  comes  up  again,  and  the  husbandmen 
(Chanting  old  hymns  the  while) 
Sow  their  sure  crops,  which  till  midwinter  be 

Green,  gladdening  the  old  Nile 
As  he  goes  on  his  gracious  journey  to  the  Sea  ! 
Land  of  strange  gods,  human,  and  beast,  and  bird, 
Where  animals  were  sacred  and  adored, 

The  great  bull  Apis  being  of  these  the  chief ; 

Pasth,  with  her  woman's  breast  and  lion  face, 
Maned,  with  her  long  arms  stretching  down  her  thighs  ; 

Nu,  with  the  ram's  head  and  the  curled  horns  ; 

And  Athor,  whom  a  templed  crown  adorns  ; 
And  Mut,  the  vulture.  And  the  higher  Three, 
The  Goddess-Mother  Isis,  and  her  lord, 

Divine  Osiris,  whom  dark  Typhon  slew, 
For  whom,  in  her  great  grief, 

(Leading  unfathered  Horus,  weeping,  too,) 
She  wandered  up  and  down,  lamenting  sore, 
Searching  for  lost  Osiris  :    Libya  heard 

Her  lamentations,  and  her  rainy  eyes 
Flooded  the  shuddering  Nile  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  she  had  found,  in  many  a  secret  place, 
The  poor  dismembered  body  (can  it  be 
These  are  supreme  Osiris  ?)  whereat  she 

Gathered  the  dear  remains  that  Typhon  hid. 

And  builded  over  each  a  Pyramid 
In  thirty  cities,  and  was  queen  no  more  ; 
For  Horus  governed  in  his  father's  stead,  • 

The  crowns  of  Earth  and  Heaven  on  his  anointed  head ! 
From  out  the  mists  of  hoar  Antiquity 
Straggle  uncertain  figures,  gods  or  men, 
Menes,  Athothis,  Cheops,  and  Khafren  ; 
No  matter  who  these  last  were,  what  they  did, 


462  LATER   POEMS. 

Save  that  each  raised  a  monstrous  Pyramid 
To  house  his  mummy,  and  they  rise  to-day 

Rifled  thereof!     And  she 
Colossal  Woman,  couchant  in  the  sands. 
Who  has  a  lion's  body,  paws  for  hands, 
(If  she  was  winged,  like  the  Theban  one, 
The  wide-spread  wings  are  gone.) 
Nations  have  fallen  round  her,  but  she  stands, 
Dynasties  came  and  went,  but  she  went  not, 
She   saw  the  Pharaohs  and   the  Shepherd   Kings, 
Chariots  and  horsemen  in  their  dread  array, 
Cambyses,  Alexander,  Anthony, 
The  hosts  of  standards,  and  the  eagle  wings, 
Whom,  to  her  ruinous  sorrow,  Egypt  drew  : 

She  saw,  and  she  forgot, 
Remembered  not  the  old  gods,  nor  the  new. 

Which  were  to  her  as  though  they  had  not  been  ; 
Remembered  not  the  opulent,  great  Queen, 
Whom  riotous  misbecomings  so  became. 
Temptress,  whom  none  could  tame. 
Splendor  and  Danger,  fatal  to  beguile  ; 
Remembered  not  the  serpent  of  old  Nile, 
Nor  the  Herculean  Roman  she  loved  and  overthrew  ! 
Half  buried  in  the  sand  she  lies  : 
She  neither  questions,  nor  replies; 
And  what  is  coming,  what  is  gone, 
Disturbs  her  not :    she  looks  straight  on, 
Under  the  everlasting  skies, 
In  what  Eternal  Eyes ! 
Out  of  all  this  a  Presence  comes,  and  stands 
Full-fronted,  as  who  turns  upon  the  Past, 
Modern  among  the  ancients,  and  the  last 
Of  re-born,  risen  nations  :    in  her  hands, 

That  once  so  many  sceptres  held,  and  rods, 
A  palm  leaf  set  with  jewels  :    Princess,  3he, 


GUESTS   OF   THE   STATE.  463 

She  has  her  palaces  along  the  Nile, 
Her  navies  on  the  Sea  ; 
And  in  the  temples  of  her  fallen  gods, 
(Not  hers,  she  knows  but  the  One  God  over  all,) 
She  hears  from  holy  mosques  the  muezzins  call, 
"  Lo,  Allah  is  Most  Great!"     And  when  the  dawn 
Is  drawing  near,   "  Prayer  better  is  than  Sleep." 
She  rides  abroad,  her  curtains  are  undrawn, 

She  walks  with  lifted  veil,  nor  hides  her  smile. 
Nor  the  sweet,  luminous  eyes,  where  languors  creep 
No  more  :    she  is  no  more  Circassian  girl. 

But  Princess,  woman  with  the  mother-breast  ; 
No  Cleopatra  to  dissolve  the  pearl 
And  take  the  asp — the  East  become  the  West ! 
Honor  to  Egypt,  honor. 
May  Allah  smile  upon  her  ! 
He  does  ;    for,  while  on  others  waning  now, 
The  Prophet's  Crescent  broadens  on  her  brow. 
O  prosper,  Egypt,  prosper  !     Nor  deplore 
What  was,  and  might  have  been, 
When  thou  wert  slave  and  queen : 
Hither,  and  sing  " /«  Exitu"  no  more! 


Welcome,  a  thousand  welcomes  !     Our  emotion 
Demands  a  speech  we  have  not  :    it  demands 

The  unutterable  largeness  of  the  Ocean, 
The  immeasurable  broadness  of  the  Lands 

That  own  us  masters.     Who  is  he  shall  speak 

This  language  for  us  ?     From  what  mountain  peak  ? 

And  in  the  rhythms  of  what  epic  Song, 
At  once  serene  and  strong  ? 

Welcomes,  ten  thousand  welcomes  !     It  is  much, 
O  Sisters,  ye  have  done  in  coming  here, 
For  from  the  hour  yc  touch 


464  LATER   POEMS. 

Our  peaceful  shores,  ye  are  peaceful,  equal,  dear  ! 
Not  with  exultations, 
O  Sister,  Mother  Nations, 
Do  we  receive  your  coming ;    for  more  than  many  see 
Comes  with  ye  ;    do  ye  see  it  ?     It  is  what  is  to  be 
Some  day  among  your  myriads,  who  will  no  more  obey. 
But,  peaceable  or  warring,  will  then  find  out  the  way 

Themselves  to  govern  :    if  they  tolerate 
Kaisers,  and  Kings,  and  Princelings,  as  to-day. 
It  will  be  because  they  pity,  and  are  too  good  to    hate. 
The  New  World  is  teaching  the  Old  World  to  be  free  : 
This,  her  acknowledgment  from  these,  is  more 
Than  all  that  went  before. 
Henceforth,  America,  Man  looks  up  to  Thee, 
Not  down  at  the  dead  Republics.     Rise,  arise  ! 
That  all  men  may  behold  thee.     Be  not  proud, 
Be  humble  and  be  wise. 

And  let  thy  head  be  bowed 
To  the  Unknown,  Supreme  One,  who  on  high 
Has  willed  thee  not  to  die  ! 
Be  grateful,  watchful,  brave. 
See  that  among  thy  children  none  shall  plunder. 
Nor  rend  asunder. 
Swift    to    detect    and    punish,  and    strong    to  shield  and 
save  ! 
Shall  the  drums  beat,  trumpets  sound, 
And  the  cannon  thunder  round  ? 
No,  these  are  warlike  noises,  and  must  cease  ; 

Not  thus,  while  the  whole  world  from  battle  rests, 
The  Commonwealth  receives  her  honored  guests  ; 
She  celebrates  no  Triumphs  but  of  Peace. 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE   PHILIPPINES.  46; 


THE  PEARL  OF  THE  PHILIPPINES. 

"  I  HEAR,  Relempago,  that  you 
Were  once  a  famous  fisherman, 
Who  at  Negros,  or  Palawan, 
Or,  maybe,  it  was  at  Zebou, 
Found  something  precious  in  the  sand, 
A  nugget  washed  there  by  the  rain, 
That  sHpped  from  your  too  eager  hand, 
And  soon  as  found  was  lost  again. 
If  it  had  been  a  pearl  instead, 
(Why  does  your  good  wife  shake  her  head  ?) 
I  could  the  story  understand  ; 
For  I  have  known  so  many  lost, 
And  once  too  often  to  my  cost. 
I  trade  in  pearls  ;   I  buy  and  sell. 
They  say  I  know  their  value  well. 
I  have  seen  some  large  ones  in  my  day. 
Have  heard  of  larger — who  shall  say 
How  large  these  unseen  pearls  have  been  .•' 
I  don't  believe  in  things  unseen. 
I  hear  there's  one  now  at  Zebou 
That  dwarfs  a  bird's  egg,  and  outshines 
The  full  moon  in  its  purity. 
What  say  you,  is  the  story  true  ? 
And  what's  the  pearl  called  ?     Let  me  see — 
The  Pearl  of  all  the  Philippines." 
'Twas  at  Manilla,  and  the  three 
Sat  in  a  shaded  gallery 
That  looked  upon  the  river,  where 
All  sorts  of  sailing  boats  all  day 
Wont  skimming  round,  like  gulls  at  play, 
And  made  a  busy  picture  there. 
20* 


466  LATER   POEMS. 

The  speaker  was — what  no  one  knew, 
Except  a  merchant  :  Jew  with  Jew, 
A  Turk  with  Turks,  Parsee,  Hindoo, 
But  still  to  one  religion  true, 
And  that  was  Trade  :  a  pleasant  guest. 
Who,  knowing  many  things,  knew  best 
What  governs  men,  for  he  was  one 
Whom  many  trusted,  trusting  none. 
His  host,  Relempago,  who  heard 
His  questions  with  an  inward  shock, 
Looked  up,  but  answered  not  a  word. 
He  was  a  native  Tagaloc  ; 
A  man  that  was  not  past  his  prime. 
And  yet  was  old  before  his  time. 
His  face  was  sad,  his  hair  was  gray. 
His  eyes  on  something  far  away. 
His  wife  was  younger,  and  less  sad ; 
A  Spanish  woman,  she  was  clad 
As  are  the  Tagal  women  ;  fair. 
With  all  her  dark  abundant  hair, 
That  was  a  wonder  to    behold. 
Drawn  from  her  face  with  pins  of  gold. 
"  You  have  not  seen  it,  I  perceive," 
Said  the  pearl  merchant  ;  "  nor  have  L 
I'd  have  to  see  it  to  believe. 
And  then  would  rather  have  you  by. 
There's  no  such  pearl."    "  You  spoke  of  me," 
After  a  pause  his  host    began  : 
"  Yes,  I  was  once  a  fisherman, 
And  loved,  though  now  I  hate,  the  sea. 
'Twas  twenty — thirty  years  ago, 
And  this  good  lady  by  my  side 
Had  not  been  many  moons  the  bride 
Of  poor  but  proud  Relempago. 
That  I  was  poor  she  did    not  care, 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE   PHILIPPINES.  467 

She  let  me  love  her — loved  again. 

She  comes  of  the  best  blood  of  Spain  ; 

There  is  no  better  any  where. 

You  see  what  /  am.     As  I  said, 

I  cast  my  bread  upon  the  sea, 

Or  from  the  sea  I  drew  my  bread, 

What  matter,  so  it  came  to  me  ? 

We  loved,  were  young,  our  wants  were  few  : 

The  happiest  pair  in  all  Zebou  ! 

At  last  a  child,  and  what  before 

Seemed  happiness  was  more  and  more 

The  thing  it  seemed,  the  dream  come  true. 

You  smile  :   I  see  you  never  knew 

A  father's  pleasure  in  a  child." 

"  Pardon,  my  friend,  I  never  smiled  ; 

I  am  a  father.     I  have  three 

Sweet  troubles  that  are  dear  to  me." 

"  But  ours  was  not  a  trouble,  no," 

Said  simple,  good  Relempago. 

"  It  was  the  sweetest,  dearest  child  ; 

So  beautiful,  so  gay,  so  wild. 

And  yet  so  sensitive  and  shy. 

And  given  to  sudden,  strange  alarms  : 

I've  seen  it  in  its  mother's  arms, 

Bubbling  with  laughter,  stop  and  sigh. 

It  was  like  neither  in  the  face, 

For  we  are  dark,  and  that  was  fair ; 

An  infant  of  another  race, 

That,  born  not  in  their  dwelling-place, 

Left  some  poor  woman  childless  there  ! 

A  bird  that  to  our  nest  had  flown, 

A  pearl  that  in  our  shell  had  grown, 

We  cherished  it  with  double  care. 

It  came  to  us  as  legend  says 

(I  know  not  if  the  talc  be  true) 


468  LATER   POEMS. 

Another  child  in  other  days 
Came  hither  to  depart  no  more, 
Found  one  bright  morning  on  the  shore, 
The  Infant  Jesus  of  Zebou." 

"  So  you,  too,  had,"  the  merchant  said, 
With  just  a  touch  of  quiet  scorn, 
"What  shall  I  say — a  Krishna  born? 
But  with  no  halo  round  its  head. 
What  did  you  name  the  boy?"     "A  girl, 
Not  boy,  and  therefore  dearer,  sweeter, 
We  called  the  infant  Margarita, 
For  was  she  not  our  precious  Pearl  ? 
You,  who  have  children,  as  you  say, 
Can  guess  how  much  we  loved  the  child, 
Watching  her  growth  from  day  to  day. 
Grave  if  she  wept,  but  if  she  smiled 
Delighted  with  her.     We  were  told 
That  we  grew  young  as  she  grew  old. 
I   used  to  make  long  voyages, 
Before  she  came,  in  distant  seas. 
But  now  I  never  left   Zebou, 
For  there  the  great  pearl-oysters  grew, 
(And  still  may  grow,  for  aught  I  know, 
I  speak  of  twenty  years  ago.) 
Though  waves  were  rough  and  winds  were  high, 
And  fathoms  down  the  sea  was  dark. 
And  there  was  danger  from  the  shark, 
I  shrank  from  nothing  then,  for  I 
Was  young  and  bold  and  full  of  life, 
And  had  at  home  a  loving  wife, 
A  darling  child,  who  ran  to  me, 
Stretching  her  hands  out  when  I  came, 
And  kissed  my  cheek,  and  lisped  my  name, 
And  sat  for  hours  upon  my  knee. 
What  happier  sight  was  there  to  see  ? 


THE    PEARL   OF   THE   PHILIPPINES.  4^9 

What  happier  hfe  was  there  to  be  ? 

I  lived,  my  Uttlc  Pearl,  in  thee  ! 

O,  mother !  why  did  I  begin  ?  " 

He  stopped,  and  closed  his  eyes  with  pain, 

Either  to  keep  his  tears  therein, 

Or  bring  that  \'ision  back  again. 

"  You  tell  him." 

"  Sir,"  the  lady  said, 
"  My  husband  bids  me  tell  the  tale. 
One  day  the  child  began  to  ail ; 
Its  little  cheek  was  first  too  red, 
And  then  it  was  too  deathly  pale. 
It  burned  with  fever  ;  inward  flame 
Consumed  it,  which  no  wind  could  cool  ; 
We  bathed  it  in  a  mountain  pool, 
And  it  was  burning  all  the  same. 
The  next  day  it  was  cold — so  cold 
No  fire  could  warm  it.     So  it  lay, 

Not  crying  much,  too  weak  to  play, 

And  looking  all  the  while  so  old. 

So  fond,  too,  of  its  father,  he, 

Good  man,  was  more  to  it  than  I : 

The  moment  his  light  step  drew  nigh 

It  would  no  longer  stay  with  me. 

I  said  to  him,  '  The  child  will  die.' 

But  he  declared  it  should  not  be." 
"  'Tis  true,"  Relempago  replied  : 

"  I  felt  if  Margarita  died 

My  heart  was  broken.     And  I  said, 

'  She  shall  not  die  till  I  have  tried 

Once  more  to  save  her.'     What  to  do? 

Then  something  put  into  my  head 

The  Infant  Jesus  of  Z^bou. 

*  I'll  go  to  him  :    the  Child  Divine 

Will  save  this  only  child  of  mine. 


470 


LATER   POEMS. 

I  will  present  him  with  a  pearl, 
And  he  will  spare  my  little  girl, 
The  largest  pearl  that  I  can  find, 
The  one  that  shall  delight  his  mind. 
The  purest,  best,  I  give  to  you, 

0  Infant  Jesus  of  Zebou  ! ' 

'Twas  morning  when  I  made  the  vow. 
And  well  do  I  remember  now 
How  light  my  heart  was  as  I  ran 
Down  to  the  sea,  a  happy  man  ! 
All  that  I  passed  along  the  way. 
The  woods  around  me  and  above 
The  plaintive  cooing  of  the  dove, 
The  rustling  of  the  hidden  snake. 
The  wild  ducks  swimming  in  the  lake, 
The  hideous  lizards  large  as  men. 
Nothing,  I  think,  escaped  me  then, 
And  nothing  will  escape  to-day. 

1  reached  the  shore,  untied  my  boat, 
Sprang  in,  and  was  again  afloat 
Upon  the  wild  and  angry  sea. 
That  must  give  up  its  pearls  to  me, 
Its  pearl  of  pearls !     But  where  to  go  ? 
West  of  the  island  of  Bojo, 

Some  six  miles  off,  there  was  a  view 

Of  the  cathedral  of  Zebou, 

Beneath  whose  dome  the  Child  Divine 

Was  waiting  for  that  pearl  of  mine. 

Thither  I  went,  and  anchored  ;    there 

Dived  fathoms  down,  found  rocks  and  sands, 

But  no  pearl-oysters  anywhere. 

And  so  came  up  with  empty  hands. 

Twice,  thrice,  and — nothing  !     *  Cruel  sea  ! 

Where  hast  thou  hid  thy  pearls  from  me  ? 

But  1  will  have  them,  nor  depart 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE   PHILIPPINES.  4/1 

'  Until  I  have  them,  for  my  heart 
Would  break,  and  my  dear  child  would  die. 
She  shall  not  die  !     What  was  that  cry  ? 
Only  the  eagle's  scream  on  high. 
Fear  not,  Relempago  !  '     Once  more, 
Down,  down,  along  the  rocks  and  sands 
I  groped  in  darkness,  tore  my  hands, 
And  rose  with  nothing,  as  before. 
*  O  Infant  Jesus  of  Zebou  ! 
I  promised  a  great  pearl  to  you  : 
Help  me  to  find  it.'     Down  again, 
It  seemed  forever,  whirled  and  whirled  ; 
The  deep  foundations  of  the  world 
Engulfed  me  and  my  mortal  pain  ; 
But  not  forever,  for  the  sea 
That  swallowed  would  not  harbor  me. 
I  rose  again,  I  saw  the  sun, 
I  felt  my  dreadful  task  was  done. 
My  desperate  hands  had  wrenched  away 
A  great  pearl-oyster  from  its  bed. 
And  brought  it  to  the  light  of  day  ; 
Its  ragged  shell  was  dripping  red, 
They  bled  so  then.     But  all  was  well, 
For  in  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
The  pearl,  pear-shaped  and  perfect,  lay. 
My  child  was  saved.     No  need  to  tell 
How  I  rejoiced,  and  how  I  flew 
To  the  cathedral  of  Zebou  ; 
For  there  the  Infant  Jesus  stands, 
And  holds  my  pearl  up  in  his  hands." 

He  ended.     The  pearl  merchant  said, 
"  You  found  your  daughter  better  ?  "     "  No," 
The  wife  of  poor  Relempago 
Replied.     "He  found  his  daughter  dead." 
"  'Twas  fate."  he  answered.     "  No,"  said  she. 


4/2  LATER   POEMS. 

" 'Tvvas  God.     He  gave  the  child  to  me; 
He  took  the  child,  and  He  knew  best  : 
He  reached,  and  took  it  from  my  breast. 
And  in  His  hand  to-day  it  shines, 
The  Pearl  of  all  the  Philippines  ! " 


WRATISLAW. 

Of  all  the  songs  that  have  been  sung. 

Of  all  the  tales  that  have  been  told, 

One  never  wearies,  young  or  old, 

Nor  has  since  this  old  world  was  young — 

The  tale,  the  song  that  celebrates 

That  fiery  something  in  the  breast 

Which  makes  man  do  his  worst  and  best. 

And  underlies  his  loves  and  hates. 

The  basis  of  the  iron  will 

That  is  wrought  up  at  once  to  kill, 

Nor  cares  whose  heart's  blood  it  may  spill. 

Such  strength  is  grand,  no  doubt,  but  still 

There  is  a  stronger  and  a  better. 

That  strikes  no  blow  and  knows  no  fetter. 

Yet  makes  its  stubborn  sinews  bend, 

And  overcomes  it  in  the  end. 

The  strength  of  weakness,  which  above 

The  angels  call  the  might  of  love, 

And  bow  to  with  adoring  awe, 

As  did  the  little  Wratislaw. 

Where  now  the    Servian  and  the  Turk, 
Born  foes,  as  slave  and  master  are, 
Are  at  their  grim  old  murderous  work, 
Grappling  in  most  unequal  war, 


WRATISLAW.  473 

Six  hundred  years  ago,  or  more, 
The  land  was  wasted,  as  to-day, 
Overrun,  as  when  the  shore  gives  way 
And  the  wild  waves  devour  the  shore, 
By  Tartar  tribes  as  wild  as  they, 
The  barbarous  horde  of  Genghis  Khan, 
.  Who  scourged  mankind  as  never  man 
Before  or  since,  as  if  he  were 
Hell-sent  to  pitch  his  dark  pavilions 
Upon  the  grave  of  slaughtered  millions, 
And  make  the  earth  a  sepulchre ! 
Down  from  the  steppes  of  Tartary 
His  countless  thousands  swept  for  years, 
His  long-haired  horsemen  with  their  spears, 
His  bowmen  with  their  arrows  keen  ; 
Such  pitiless  fiends  were  never  seen 
Till  then,  and  worst  of  all  was  he, 
Destruction's  self  whose  iron  tread 
Shook  kingdoms  :  peaceful  peoples  lay 
Secure  before  him  in  Cathay  ; 
He  passed  that  way  and  they  were  dead. 
Across  the  swift,  swollen  winter  rivers. 
Across  the  hot,  parched  summer  sands. 
With  bended  bows  and  bristling  quivers, 
And  spears  and  scymetars  in  their  hands. 
Rushed  Tartar,  Mongol,  Turkoman, 
To  do  the  bidding  of  Genghis  Khan, 
Through  Russia,  Poland,  down  to  where 
Morava  is;  they  halted  there. 
Before  they  came  there  was — if  not 
Perpetual  peace,  which  nowhere  reigns, 
So  darkly  Nature  shapes  our  ends — 
There  still  were  times  when  men  forgot 
They  had  been  foes,  and  might  be  friends. 
Having  the  same  blood  in  their  veins. 


474         •  LATER   POEMS. 

Princes  and  peoples  prospered.     Now — 

How  do  we  track  the  savage  sea, 

When  its  spent  waves  no  longer  roar, 

But  by  their  ravage  of  the  shore 

Whose  once  tall  cliffs  have  ceased  to  be? 

Such  was  the  track  of  Genghis  Khan, 

Who  from  his  boyhood  overran 

The  lands,  and  made  their  rulers  bow 

To  his  imperious  will,  or  whim, 

As  if  the  world  belonged  to  him. 

Temples  and  towers  were  trampled  down. 

Were  pillaged,  and  were  set  on  fire  : 

Pagoda,  mosque,  and  Christian  spire, 

The  great  walled  city,  little  town. 

The  herdsman's  hut,  the  monarch's  hall, 

He  pillaged  and  destroyed  them  all  : 

Nor  stayed  the  hands  of  his  rough  horde 

Who  put  their  dwellers  to  the  sword. 

The  soldier  fighting  on  the  wall, 

The  old,  old  man  with  snow-white  hair. 

Mothers  with  children  at  the  breast, 

Virgins— but  let  thy  curtain  fall. 

Oblivion,  and  conceal  the  rest ! 

The  work  of  death  was  never  done. 

For  everywhere  along  their  track 

Were  flights  of  vultures  ;  everywhere 

The  wolves  came  trooping  from  their  lair, 

Came  famished,  and  went  glutted  back. 

The  smoke  of  battle  dimmed  the  sun. 

And  darkness  like  a  funeral  pall 

Was  on  the  ruins,  all  were  black 

Save  when  the  embers  smouldered  red  : 

It  was  as  if  the  Earth  were  dead. 

And  they  heaped  ashes  on  her  head  ! 

They  halted  in  Morava.     Nay, 


WRATISLAW.  475 

They  were  defeated  there  and  then, 

By  Slavic  chiefs  and  Slavic  men, 

Warriors  more  desperate  than  they, 

Whose  spears  and  lances  cleft  their  way 

To  where  their  horsemen  were  at  bay, 

And  horse  and  rider  rolled  in  dust, 

And  whose  sharp  swords  with  lightning  thrus't, 

Ringing  on  helmet,  armor,  shield. 

Pierced,  clove,  until  they  turned  and  fled, 

And  left  them  masters  of  the  field 

Piled  with  a  hundred  thousand  dead  ! 

This  Sir  Berka,  valiant  knight. 
Though  too  old  for  combat  now, 
From  his  castle  on  the  height 
Saw,  and  hungered  for  the  fight, 
Saw,  but  with  an  anxious  brow. 
All  that  day  and  all  the  morrow 
On  his  battlements  he  stood, 
Now  in  joy,  and  now  in  sorrow. 
Gazing  on  the  distant  wood, 
In  whose  depths,  like  frightened  deer. 
He  saw  the  Tartars  disappear. 
Sitting  at  the  old  man's  side, 
But  no  help  to  the  old  man. 
Was  Ludmilla,  once  his  pride. 
Wife  of  his  first-born,  his  Jan, 
Jan,  who  girt  on  his  good  sword, 
And  pursued  the  flying  horde  ; 
Who  returned  not  with  his  train. 
To  the  castle  gates  again. 
And  who  was  not  with  the  slain ! 
She  was  gazing  on  his  track, 
And  her  heart  was  sore  afeard. 
For  the  Tartars  disappeared. 


476  LATER   POEMS. 

And  her  husband  came  not  back  ! 

There  was  yet  another  one 

CHnging  to  Sir  Berka's  side, 

Wratislaw,  his  youngest  son, 

Who  his  sorrow  strove  to  hide, 

For  some  one  must  be  brave,  he  saw. 

And  cheer  his  father,  poor,  old  man, 

Whose  heart  had  gone  out  after  Jan, 

And  had  forgotten  Wratislaw. 

A  piece  of  childhood,  for,  in  sooth, 

One  might  not  call  the  lad  a  youth  ; 

The  suns  of  twelve  short  summers  had  shed 

Their  light  upon  his  little  head, 

Upon  the  golden  locks  that  shone 

With  greater  glory  than  their  own  ; 

The  flowers  of  twelve  short  springs  had  come 

And  looked  upon  him,  like  the  sun, 

And  seen  their  loveliness  outdone 

By  something  in  his  pensive  face  : 

Perhaps  it  was  his  winning  grace, 

Perhaps  its  might  of  martyrdom  ; 

For  there  was  that  about  the  boy, 

Young  as  he  was,  and  slight  of  frame, 

Which  only  tenderness  could  tame, 

And  only  death  destroy. 

Such  was  the  child,  and  such  the  fire 

That  in  his  fair,  frail  body  burned. 

As  he  beheld  the  wasted  land  ; 

He  sighed,  but  wept  not,  for  his  sire 

Hated  the  sight  of  tears  ;  he  turned 

And  shut  them  back,  and  kissed  his  hand. 

There  are  seasons,  hours  of  dread, 
When  something  must  be  done  or  said  ; 
Hearts  bear  much,  but  their  tense  chords 


WRATISLAW. 

Must  be  touched,  or  they  will  break. 

Nature  then,  for  sorrow's  sake, 

Smites  its  silence  into  words. 

The  woman's  heart  was  here  the  first 

That  into  lamentation  burst, 

And  thus  the  pale  Ludmilla  spake  : 

"  Ah,  my  hero,  ah,  my  Jan, 

Dearest  husband,  princely  man, 

Woe  to  thy  poor  wife,  to  me. 

Who  have  lost  my  sons  with  thee  ! 

Woe  to  thy  forefathers'  land, 

Whose  bright  star  hath  set  with  thine  ; 

It  hath  now  nor  head  nor  hand, 

The  strongest  is  as  weak  as  mine. 

O,  that  we  have  lived  to  pray 

As  we  must  on  this  dark  day, 

For  we  cannot  be  comforted 

But  by  the  thought  that  thou  art  dead. 

Bitter  comfort,  dreadful  prayer. 

Death  to  thee,  to  us  despair  ! 

But  better  so,  if  so  it  be. 

Far  better  thou  wert  in  thy  grave 

Than  living  captive  and  a  slave  : 

But  none  can  make  a  slave  of  thee  ; 

Slaves  die  a  thousand  deaths  a  day, 

Thou  hast  but  one  death,  Jan,  and  I, 

Thy  childless  widow,  bid  thee  die. 

And  I  will  follow!"     "Sister,  nay," 

Said  Wratislaw,  and  stole  to  her, 

"  There  is  a  better  Comforter." 

Sir  Berka  was  the  last  to  speak. 
And  bitter  were  the  words  he  said, 
And  piteous  were  the  tears  he  shed. 
For  tears  would  come,  and  all  the  same 


4/8  LATER   POEMS. 

When  brushed  away  they  came  and  came. 
"  What  have  I  done,  Lord,  to  arouse 
Thine  anger  on  our  ancient  house  ? 
For  thou  art  angry,  sure,  with  me. 
WTiy  are  its  deep  foundations  shaken  ? 
Why  is  its  last  strong  pillar  taken? 
WTiy  am  I  thus  in  age  forsaken  ? 
Lord  God !  what  have  I  done  to  thee  ? 
Behold  me  here,  a  broken  man, 
For  they  have  taken  my  hero,  Jan, 
Who  should  my  feeble  hands  sustain, 
And  plant  my  name  and  race  again  ! 
Calamities  have  fallen  before 
Upon  my  house,  but  not  another 
Like  unto  this,  and  nevermore 
Can  this  befall,  for  none  remain  ; 
For  what  is  she,  and  what  am  I? 
A  weeping  woman,  not  a  mother. 
And  an  old  man,   soon  to  die  !  " 

The  young  child,   Wratislaw,  till  now 
Had  kept  his  tears  back,  inly  grieved 
To  see  his  father  so  bereaved  ; 
But  now  they  gushed,  and  his  pale  brow 
Flushed  for  his  brother's  childless  wife 
Who  by  his  father's  taunt  was  stung. 
And  for  himself,  for  he,  though  young, 
Would  not  be  blotted  out  of  life. 
Even  by  his  father's  evil  tongue. 
So  with  a  hurt,  proud  look  he  said, 
"  O  father!  wherefore  dost  thou  say 
That  thy  great  stem  is  broken — dead, 
Because  one  branch  is  torn  away  ? 
True,  Jan  is  gone,  but  Jan  lives  still, 
And  Wratislaw  is  still   with  thee  ; 


WRATISLAW.  479 

It  is  his  duty  now  to  be 

What  the  brave  Jan  was,  and  to  fill, 

Till  he  returns,  his  vacant  place, 

And  so  uphold  the  name  and  race." 

Sir  Berka  answered  not,  but  smiled, 

A  smile  that  was  not  good  to  see. 

Then,  turning  to  his  daughter,  he  : 

"  The  spirit  of  his  ancestry 

Flames  up  a  moment  in  the  child, 

Crackles  in  words,  but  words  are  wild. 

For  deeds,  not  words,  are  wanted  now. 

To  think  this  weakling  sprung  from  me. 

This  slip  from  our  ancestral  tree  ! 

He  has  his  mother's  eye  and  face, 

And  he  repeats  her  saintly  race. 

Not  mine,  by  Heaven  !  his  woman's  hand 

Will  never  bear  the  battle  brand. 

It  may  the  censer  ;  he  shall  be 

A  servant  in  some  pious  place, 

And  pray  for  me  with  shaven  brow  ; 

And  if  I  live — but  I  shall  die, 

He  shall  prepare  me  for  the  sky !  " 

The  child  a  moment  crouching  low. 

For  every  word  had  been  a  blow 

That  smote  his  heart,  started  at  length, 

And  rose  up  in  his  boyish  strength  : 

"  My  lord  and  father,  we  are  taught, 

By  holy  men  in  Holy  Writ, 

The  boasted  strength  of  man  is  naught, 

Unless  the  Lord  sustaineth  it." 

"Peace!     I  have  heard  the  words  before. 

And  I  will  hear  the  words  no  more  ; 

They  will  not  rescue  my  poor  Jan 

From  the  claw  of  Genghis  Khan !  " 

Sadly,  but  proudly,  Wratislaw, 


480  LATER   POEMS. 

Whose  courage  in  his  clear  bkie  eye 
Shot  like  a  falcon  through  the  sky, 
Answered,  but  with  a  voice  of  awe, 
"God's  ways  are  not  the  ways  of  man. 
For  when  He  wills  the  weak  are  strong  : 
And,  father,  thou  hast  done  me  wrong  ; 
But  thou  my  face  no  more  shall  see. 
For,  though  the  sword  I  cannot  draw, 
I  will  go  find  my  brother  Jan. 
Farewell ;  he  will  return  with  me." 

Before  Sir  Berka  could  reply 

The  boy  had  gone,  but  none  knew  where. 

Had  vanished,  like  a  flying  hare 

That  in  an  instant  flashes  by. 

They  sought  him  here,  they  sought  him  there, 

They  rode,  they  ran,  like  hounds  in  cry, 

But  nowhere  found  a  trace  of  him  ; 

For  how  he  vanished  no  man  saw, 

So  swift  the  steed,  and  strong  of  limb — 

If  steed  he  saddled  for  the  flight 

That  swept  him  from  his  father's  sight. 

Sir  Berka  was  a  woeful  man  ; 

Before  he  had  but  lost  his  Jan, 

Now  he  had  lost  his  Wratislaw ! 

He  cursed  his  wild,  unpitying  mood, 

He  cursed  his  dark  and  savage  heart 

That  now  against  itself  took  part, 

Because  too  late  it  understood 

How  dear  the  boy  was,  and  how  good. 

He  loved  him  now,  if  not  before. 

But  he  had  always  loved  him,  yes, 

And  hungered  for  his  fond  caress. 

And  now  he  loved  him  more  and  more. 


^ 


o 


WRATISLAW.  48 1 

Sir  Bcrka  was  an  altered  man, 

Whether  he  sat  within  his  hall, 

Or  wandered  slowly  round  his  lands  ; 

His  wrinkled  features  grew  more  wan, 

More  white  his  hair  that  used  to  fall 

So  darkly  down  his  shoulders  ;    all 

The  man  was  shaken,  most  his  hands, 

That  scarce  could  carve  his  meat,  and  raise 

The  wine  cup  to  his  withered  lips  ; 

He  had  no  hope  of  better  days, 

A  strong  soul  setting  in  eclipse. 

Darkly  Sir  Berka's  days  were  spent, 

Darkly  the  seasons  came  and  went  ; 

Whether  the  flowers  of  spring  were  growing, 

Whether  the  summer  fruits  were  glowing, 

Whether  the  autumn  winds  were  blowing. 

Whether  the  winter  sky  was  snowing, 

He  knew  not,  cared  not  ;    all  he  saw 

Was  nothing  to  this  lonely  man. 

Since  tidings  there  were  none  of  Jan, 

And  none  of  Wratislaw  ! 

He  had  but  one  strong  hold  of  life. 

That  poor,  weak,  fading,  childless  wife, 

Whose  pardon  twenty  times  a  day 

He  begged,  whose  dear  head  he  caressed. 

And  closely  to  his  bosom  pressed. 

Lest  she,  too,  should  be  torn  away. 


One  day,  as  thus  disconsolate 
Sir  Berka  sat  within  his  hall, 
A  stranger  rode  up  to  the  wall, 
And  halted  at  the  castle  gate  : 
A  stalwart  figure  came  in  sight, 
Of  whom,  if  one  but  marked  his  height, 
21 


482  LATER   POEMS. 

The  noble  carriage  of  his  head, 

He  would — he  must  at  once  have  said. 

The  stranger  is  a  valiant  knight. 

He  looked  at  first  a  Christian  man, 

But  one  who  journeyed  from  afar, 

And  Christian  armor  surely  wore, 

But  closer  like  a  Tartar  khan, 

For  he  was  dark  or  tanned,  and  bore, 

As  the  khans  did,  a  scymetar. 

He  strode — he  seemed  to  know  the  way — 

Straight  through  the  castle  to  the  door 

That  opened  in  Sir  Berka's  hall  j 

He  strode  between  him  and  the  day 

That  smote  his  shadow  on  the  floor, 

Weaponed,  and  broad,  and  tall. 

He  kneeled  down  at  the  old  man's  chair. 

And  at  his  childless  daughter's  feet, 

Whose  startled  heart  did  strangely  beat. 

As  if  a  ghost  were  there  ! 

"  Who  is  this  kneeling,  silent  man  ?  " 

"  O  father,  it  is  Jan  !  " 

Who  will  may  paint  this,  or  may  try, 

I  will  go  on,  and  tell  the  rest  ; 

The  secrets  of  the  human  breast 

Are  not  for  every  curious  eye. 

Pass  over,  then,  the  shock  of  meeting. 

Sir  Berka's  and  Ludmilla's  greeting, 

And  see  the  son  and  husband  seated 

Between  his  father  and  his  wife, 

Holding  a  hand  in  each  hard  palm, 

Erect,  and  resolute,  and  calm. 

They  asked  the  story  of  his  life 

Since  that  destructive,  glorious  hour 

That  broke  the  dreaded  Tartar's  power. 

This  is  the  story  he  repeated  : 


WRATISLAW.  483 

"  You  stood  upon  the  battlement 

That  day  and  watched  the  way  I  went ; 

You  saw  a  portion  of  the  fight ; 

The  Tartars  fled,  and  we  pursued 

Pell-mell  behind  the  multitude, 

And  harried  their  disastrous  flight. 

They  fled  like  hares,  in  such  dismay 

That  had  we  numbered  man  for  man 

There  would  not  be  a  Tartar  clan 

Upon  the  earth  to-day  ! 

But  one  fled  not,  but  stood  at  bay, 

With  ten  or  twelve  brave  fellows  more, 

All  horsemen  ;    by  the  garb  he  wore 

He  should  have  been  a  khan. 

He  rode  at  me,  and  I  at  him, 

We  fought  like  men  who  fight  to  die, 

Not  careless,  though,  of  life  or  limb, 

But  with  a  wary  eye. 

I  smote  his  helmet  off,  and  might 

Have  cloven  his  Tartar  skull  in  twain, 

But  when  I  saw  his  hair  was  white, 

I  could  not  strike  him, — wrong,  perchance, 

But  I  would  do  the  like  again. 

He  smiled,  and  shot  a  lightning  glance 

Full  in  my  face,  but  never  stirred  ; 

He  waved  his  hand  without  a  word, 

And  in  an  instant  I  was  bound, 

Tied  hand  and  foot  upon  my  horse, 

And  borne,  as  all  were  borne  along, 

For  now  the  panic  was  so  strong 

That  nothing  could  withstand  its  force. 

It  was  not  long  before  I  found 

That  old,  bare-headed,  white-haired  man 

I  should  have  slain  was  Genghis  Khan  ! 

At  first  I  knew  the  wav  thev  fled, 


4.84  LATER   POEMS. 

The  woods  they  pierced,  the  streams  they  crossed, 

The  mountain  passes  and  defiles  ; 

But  when  one  flees  a  thousand  miles. 

And  sees  strange  starlight  overhead. 

The  knowledge  of  his  path  is  lost. 

I  only  knew,  or  cared  to  know. 

That  they  were  driven  back,  and  back. 

That  they  were  harried  on  their  track, 

That  thousands  perished  in  the  snow; 

I  thanked  the  Lord  God  it  was  so  ! 

I  suffered  somewhat,  but  you  see 

It  did  not  make  an  end  of  me. 

For,  father,  here  I  am  with  thee. 

With  thee,  Ludmilla."     Neither  spake. 

For  fear,  perhaps,  their  tears  would  break, 

Their  full  hearts  overflow. 

"  At  last  we  reached  the  Tartar  land. 

The  kingdom  that  is  Genghis  Khan's, 

The  remnant  of  a  thousand  clans. 

But  still  a  mighty  band. 

Pass  lightly  over  them  and  him. 

For  they  were  sullen,  he  was  grim. 

And  had  a  hasty  hand. 

Pass  lightly  over  what  came  next. 

As  over  a  dream  that  long  perplexed 

The  short  hours  of  the  night,  and  fled, 

And  left  the  morning  in  its  stead. 

And  me — not  as  it  threatened,  dead. 

But  living,  as  I  am  to-day. 

For  God  the  Lord  is  strong  to  save 

The  hearts  that  trust  him  ;    only  say 

That  1  was  there  a  slave. 

You  know  what  that  is,  you  have  seen 

Those  who  have  Tartar  captives  been, 

But  never  one,  I  think,  like  me  ; 


WRATISLAW.  485 

Or  so,  at  least,  thought  Genghis  Khan. 
Dark  man  !   he  knew  enough  of  man 
To  know  that  I  was  free. 
And  would  be,  though  in  chains,  until 
Death  or  deliverance  came  ;    his  will 
Was  met  and  matched  by  mine  ;    so  he — 
He  went  his  way,  and  I  went  mine. 
He  never  saw  me  peak  and  pine, 
Nor  heard  me  sigh  for  rest. 
I  thought  to  fill  a  Tartar  grave 
Were  better  than  to  live — a  slave. 
But  God  knew  better,  He  knew  best. 
I  was  not  wholly  downcast  ;    I 
Believed  the  day  and  hour  would  come 
(May  Heaven  forgive  me  if  1  lie  !) 
When  I  should  rise,  and  journey  home 
And  be  with  you — I  was  in  heart; 
There  was  no  day,  there  was  no  hour 
But  I  was  here  ;    no  earthly  power 
Could  keep  our  souls  apart ! 
I  saw  you  as  I  see  you  now. 
With  fewer  furrows  on  your  brow, 
Father  ;    and  you,   Ludmilla,  saw, 
And  my  young  brother,  Wratislaw, 
His  frank  blue  eyes,  his  yellow  hair, 
There  never  was  a  child  so  fair ! 
I  think  we  never  understood 
How  brave  he  was,  as  brave  as  good." 
Sir  Berka  groaned,  Ludmilla  sighed  ; 
But  Jan  went  on,  with  tender  pride  : 
"  I  loved  the  boy  ;    my  own  dear  son  — 
If  God  had  pleased  to  send  me  one — 
Could  not  have  dearer  been  than  he, 
The  flower  of  all  our  family  ! 
Night  after  night  I  dreamed  of  him, 


486  LATER   FOEMS. 

Bright  dreams  that  did  till  morning  last ; 

At  length  they  lessened  and  were  dim, 

At  last  they  vanished  in  the  past. 

Then  suddenly  I  was  aware, 

Still  in  my  dreams  that  sadder  grew, 

That  something,  some  one  followed  me, 

Some  one  did  day  and  night  pursue  ; 

It  might  be  beast,  it  might  be  man. 

The  face,  the  form  I  could  not  see, 

Nor  knew  I  when  it  was,  or  where  : 

And  once  my  name  was  shouted,  '  Jan .' ' 

This  happened  many  moons  ago, 

When  mountain  sides  were  white  with  snow, 

And  I  was  slave  to  Genghis  Khan. 

One  day  he  summoned  me  ;    I  went, 

And  found  him  in  his  battle  tent, 

Girt  round  by  bowmen  ;  there  I  saw — ■ 

Great   God  ! — my  brother  Wratislaw  ! 

The  grim,  old  king  looked  up  and  smiled. 

'  Come  here,  my  slave,  beside  this  child  ; 

Behold  how  pale  he    is,  how  weak, 

His  wasted  form,  his  sunken  cheek  ; 

He  says  he  is  your  brother,  says 

He  comes  to  get  your  freedom, — he 

Who  sees  the  end  of  all  his  days 

Is  nigh,  death  waiting,  comes  to  me,, 

Offers  himself  to  be  my  slave. 

If  I  will  set  you  free. 

Slavonian,  speak,  I  know  you  brave. 

Would  you  advise  this  less  than  man 

(Support  him,  for  he  faints  you  see,) 

To  be  the  slave  of  Genghis  Khan  ? ' 

My  brother  proudly  raised  his  head, 

And  with  a  flashing  eye  he  said, 

'  Look  not  upon  my  wasted  frame. 


WRATISLAW.  487 

For  thine  will  one  day  be  the  same, 

But  think,  remember  how  I  came, 

Over  mountain,  over  plain. 

Where  thy  flying  clans  were  slain, 

Where  unburied  they  remain  ; 

From  far  Morava  to  thy  throne 

I  came,  but  did  not  come  alone, 

For  God  was  with  me,  led  my  hand, 

Guided  the  feet  that  bore  me  here. 

Through  Poland,  Russia,  Tartar  land  ; 

Six  moons  of  travel  for  a  man. 

Through  ways  a  man  might  fear. 

Now  listen,  therefore,  Genghis  Khan, 

For  God  speaks  through  me  and  to  thee  : 

Thou  art  to  set  my  brother  free, 

I  am  to  be  thy  slave  ! 

The  youngest  I,  th6  oldest  he  ; 

A  man  with  one  foot  in  the  grave 

Our  father,  with  no  son  but  Jan, 

My  brother,  who  is  wed  to  one 

That  loves  him,  but  has  borne  no  son; 

He  must  return,  and  I  remain. 

But  hear,  O  Genghis  Khan,  again. 

If  thou  refuse,  what  will  be  done  : 

Thou  hast  seven  sons,  and  all  men  say 

That  they  are  what  thy  sons  should  be  ; 

But  thou  shalt  see  them  fade  away 

In  seven  short  months,  and  from  to-day, 

But  not  if  Jan  is  free.' 

Seven  long,  dark  days  of  dread  suspense. 

Days,  ages  that  would  not  depart, 

Interminable  and  intense. 

That  almost  broke  my  heart — 

I  could  not  suffer  more — 

Then  I  was  summoned,  as  before, 


488  LATER   POEMS. 

By  Genghis  Khan,  who  thus  began  : 

*  Slavonian,  I  have  sent  for  you, 

For  you  have  done  what  few  have  dared. 

Fought  hand  to  hand  with  Genghis  Khan, 

Who,  when  he  sees  him,  knows  a  man, 

And,  fighting,  knows  if  he  is  brave  ; 

It  was  for  this  your  Ufe  was  spared. 

And  you  were  made  a  slave. 

I  have  subdued,  and  can  subdue. 

It  suits  me  now  to  set  you  free, 

Not  for  yourself,  but  for  your  brother. 

For  1  have  never  seen  another 

That  was  as  brave  as  he. 

I  have  seven  brothers,  but  not  one 

Would  do  for  me  what  he  has  done  ; 

I  have  seven  sons,  but  not  a  son 

Would  do  the  same  for  me  : 

I  would  not  do  it  for  any  man, 

And  not  for  God — if  God  there   be — 

For  I  am  Genghis  Khan ! 

But  for  that  boy,  that  tender  bird 

That  from  his  nest  should  not  have  stirred. 

Too  stout  of  heart,  too  weak  of  wing, 

Methinks  I  would  do  anything. 

Take  him,  and  go.     Through  all  my  land 

I  have  sent  word  that  you  are  free ; 

Return  to  peace  and  happiness  ; 

Depart,  and  think  no  more  of  me  ! ' 

I  knelt  and  kissed — I  could  no  less — 

His  world-dividing  hand." 

"And  Wratislaw  ?  "     "But  you  shall  hear. 

They  brought  me  armor,  mhie,  you  see. 

And  that  great  helmet  shagged  with  hair. 

And  from  his  own  side  Genghis  Khan 

Took  off  the  scymetar  I  wear  ; 


WRATISLAW.  489 

They  girt  it  on  me — I  was  free  ! 
Two  steeds  were  brought  me  to  pursue 
My  long,  long  journey  back  to  you. 
I  rode,  for  all  the  ways  were  clear, 
I  rode  and  rode,  as  if  for  life, 
And  here  I  am,  the  same  old  Jan." 
"  ]5ut  Wratislaw  ?  "     He  rose  up  then, 
And  led  his  father  and  his  wife 
Straight  to  the  casement,  whence  they  saw 
In  the  court-yard  two  Tartar  steeds. 
And  his  squire  holding  them  :  like  reeds 
They  trembled,  for  two  serving-men 
Bore  something  forward — Wratislaw  ? 
No,  no,  it  was  not  he  they  bore 
With  slow  steps  through  the  castle  gate, 
And  up  the  stairs,  and  in  the  hall. 
It  was  a  strong  box,  that  was  all. 
Studded  with  knobs  and  bands  of  gold  ; 
And  it  was  heavy,  too,  to  hold, 
The  bearers  drooped  beneath  the  weight  ; 
An  oaken  chest,  wherein  of  old 
Brave  Genghis  Khan  his  treasure  stored, 
The  crowns  he  had  conquered  with  his  great  sword, 
A  treasure  chest,  no  more. 
Jan  put  his  hand  within  his  breast. 
And  then  took  out  a  curious  key. 
And,  kneeling  down  where  they  could  see, 
Unlocked  the  treasure  chest. 
Yes,  it  was  Wratislaw  !     He  died 
The  day  he  found  his  brother  Jan, 
Died  then,  and  almost  at  his   side. 
Struck  with  his  greatness,  Genghis  Khan, 
Whose  stormy  soul  for  once  was  calmed, 
Had  the  dear  body  then  embalmed. 
It  was  his  body  that  they  saw, 
21* 


490  LATER   POEMS. 

The  treasure  there  was  Wratislaw ! 

They  stood  and  looked  at  one  another, 

Like  men  whose  days  are  nearly  done  : 

"  I  thank  thee,  God,  for  such   a  brother  !  " 

"  I  thank  thee,  God,  for  such  a  son  !  " 

How  beautiful  he  was  !     The  child 

Was  lovelier  than  in  life  :  his  face 

Had  caught  a  more  than  earthly  grace  ; 

It  was  as  if  an  angel  smiled. 

But  a  strong  angel,  one  whose  might 

Was  manifested  there  in  light, 

To  which  the  light  of  day  was  dim. 

Yes,  it  was  Wratislaw  who  slept 

In  the  rich  chest  of  Genghis  Khan. 

His  promise  had  been    kept. 

For  he  had  found  his  brother  Jan, 

And  Jan  had  now  returned  with  him. 


THE   DEAD    MASTER. 

It  is  appointed  unto  man  to  die. 
Where  Life  is  Death  is,  dominating  Life, 
Wresting  the  sceptre  from  its  feeble  grasp. 
And  trampling  on  its  dust.     From  the  first  hour 
When  the  first  child  upon  its  mother's  breast 
Lay  heavily,  with  no  breath  on  its  cold  lips. 
To  the  last  hour  when  the  last  man  shall  die, 
And  the  race  be  extinct — Death  never  came, 
Nor  ever  will  come,  without  apprehension. 
The  dying  may  be   ready  to  depart. 
For  sleep  and  death  are  one  to  them  ;  but  we 


THE   DEAD   MASTER.  49I 

Who  love  them,  and  survive  them — unto  whom 

The  places  they  once  filled  are  filled  no  more, 

For  whom  a  light  has  gone  out  of  the  sun, 

A  shadow  fallen  on  noonday,  unto  us. 

Who  love  our  dead,  Death  always  comes  too  soon, 

A  consternation,  and  a  lamentation, 

The  sorrow  of  all  sorrows,  till  in  turn 

We  follow  them,  and  others  mourn  for  us. 

This  tragic  lesson  of  mortality 
The  Master  who  hath  left  us  learned  in  youth, 
When  the  Muse  found  him  wandering  by  the  stream 
That  sparkled,  singing,  at  his  father's  door — 
The  first  Muse  whom  the  New  World,  loving  long. 
Wooed  in  the  depths  of  her  old  solitude. 
The  green,  untrodden,  world-wide  wilderness 
Surrendered  to  the  soul  of  this  young  man 
The  secret  of  its  silence.     Centuries  passed  ; 
The  red  man  chased  the  deer,  and  tracked  the  bear 
To  his  high  mountain  den — but  he  came  not. 
The  white  man  followed  ;   the  great  woods  were  felled, 
And  in  the  clearings  cottage  smokes  arose. 
And  fields  were  white  with  harvests  :  he  came  not. 
The  New  World  waited  for  him,  and  the  words 
Which  should  disburden  the  dumb  mystery 
That  darkened  its  strange  life,  when  summer  days 
Steeped  the  green  boughs  with  light,  and  winter  nights 
Looked  down  like  Death  upon  the  dead,  old  world  ; 
For  what  was  Earth  but  the  great  tomb  of  man, 
And  suns  and  planets  but  sepulchral  urns 
Filled  with  the  awful  ashes  of  the  Past  ? 

Such  was  the  first  sad  message  to  mankind 
Of  this  young  poet,  who  was  never  young. 
So  heavily  the  old  burden  of  the  Earth 


492  LATER   POEMS. 

Weighed  on  his  soul  from  boyhood.     Yet  not  less, 

Not  less,  but  more  he  loved  her  ;  for  if  she 

Was  sombre  with  her  secret  she  was  still 

Beautiful  as  a  goddess  ;  and  if  he 

Should  one  day  look  upon  her  face  no  more. 

He  would  not  cease  to  look  till  that  day  came  : 

For  he  for  life  was  dedicate  to  her, 

The  inspiration  of  his  earliest  song, 

The  happy  inemory  of  his  sterner  years, 

The  consolation  of  his  ripe,  old  age. 

What  she  was  to  the  eyes  of  lesser  men, 

Which  only  glance  at  the  rough  husk  of  things, 

She  never  was  to  him  ; — but  day  and  night 

A  loveliness,  a  might,  a  mystery, 

A  Presence  never  wholly  understood, 

The  broken  shadow  of  some  unknown  Power, 

Which  overflows  all  forms,  but  is  not  Form — 

The  inscrutable  Spirit  of  the  Universe ! 

High-priest  whose  temple  was  the  woods,  he  felt 

Their  melancholy  grandeur,  and  the  awe 

That  ancientness  and  solitude  beget. 

Strange  intimations  of  invisible  things, 

Which,  while  they  seem  to  sadden,  give  delight, 

And  hurt  not,  but  persuade  the  soul  to  prayer  : 

For,  silent  in  the  barren  ways  of  men, 

Under  green  roofs  of  overhanging  boughs, 

Where  the  Creator's  hands  are  never  stayed, 

The  soul  recovers  her  forgotten  speech, 

The  lost  religion  of  her  infancy. 

Nature  hath  sacred  seasons  of  her  own, 
And  reverent  poets  to  interpret  them. 
But  she  hath  other  singers,   unto  whom 
The  twinkle  of  a  dew-drop  in  the  grass, 
The  sudden  singing  of  an  unseen  bird, 


THE   DEAD    MASTER.  493 

The  pensive  brightness  of  the  evening  star, 

Are  revelations  of  a  loveliness 

For  which  there  is  no  language  known  to  man, 

Except  the  eloquent  language  of  the  eye. 

Hushed  with  the  fulness  of  her  happiness. 

What  may  be  known  of  these  recondite  things 

Our  grave,  sweet  poet  knew  :  for  unto  him 

The  Goddess  of  the  Earth  revealed  herself 

As  to  no  other  poet  of  the  time, 

Save  only  him  who  slumbers  at  Grasmere, 

His  Brother, — not  his  Master.     From  the  hour 

When  first  he  wandered  by  his  native  stream 

To  crop  the  violets  growing  on  its  banks, 

And  list  to  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn. 

To  the  last  hour  of  his  long,  honored  life, 

He  never  faltered  in  his  love  of  Nature. 

Recluse  with  men,  her  dear  society, 

Welcome  at  all  times,  savored  of  content, 

Brightened  his  happy  moments,  and  consoled 

His  hours  of  gloom.     A  student  of  the  woods 

And  of  the  fields,  he  was  their  calendar, 

Knew  when  the  first  pale  wind-flower  would  appear, 

And  when  the  last  wild-fowl  would  take  its  flight  ; 

Where  the  cunning  squirrel  had  his  granary. 

And  where  the  industrious  bee  had  stored  her  sweets. 

Go  where  he  would,  he  was  not  solitary. 

Flowers  nodded  gayly  to  him,  wayside  brooks 

Slipped  by  him  laughingly,  while  the  emulous  birds 

Showered  lyric  raptures  that  provoked  his  own. 

The  winds  were  his  companions  on  the  hills — 

The  clouds,  and  thunders— and  the  glorious  Sun, 

Whose  bright  beneficence  sustains  the  world, 

A  visible  symbol  of  the  Omnipotent, 

Whom  not  to  worship  were  to  be  more  blind 

Than  those  of  old  who  worshipped  stocks  and  stones. 


494  LATER   POEMS. 

Who  loves  and  lives  with  Nature  tolerates 
Baseness  in  nothing  ;    high  and  solemn  thoughts 
Are  his,  clean  deeds  and  honorable  life. 
If  he  be  poet,  as  our  Master  was. 
His  song  will  be  a  mighty  argument, 
Heroic  in  its  structure  to  support 
The  weight  of  the  world  forever  !     All  great  things 
Are  native  to  it,  as  the  Sun  to  Heaven. 
Such  was  thy  song,  O  Master  !    and  such  fame 
As  only  the  kings  of  thought  receive,  is  thine  ; 
Be  happy  with  it  in  thy  larger  life 
Where  Time  is  not,  and  the  sad  word — Farewell ! 


HYMN    TO    THE    SEA. 

If  there  is  nothing  sure  but  the  unsure. 
Which  is  at  once  its  cradle  and  its  grave. 
Creative  and  destructive,  hand  that  molds. 
And  feet  that  trample,  instruments  of  Change, 
Which  is  itself  the  instrument  of  Power : 
If  these,  our  bodies,  conscious  of  themselves, 
And  cognizable  by  others  like  themselves. 
Waste  and  supply  their  forces  day  by  day. 
Till  there  is  nothing  left  of  what  they  were. 
The  whole  man  being  re-made  from  head  to  foot ; 
How  comes  it  then,  I  say,  that  standing  here 
Beside  the  waters  of  this  quiet  bay, 
Which  welter  shoreward,  roughened  by  the  wind, 
Twinkling  in  sunshine,   I  am  the  same  man 
Who  gazed  upon  them  thirty  years  ago, 
Lulled  by  their  placid  motion,  and  the  sense 
Of  something  happy  they  begat  in  me  ? 

I  saunter  by  the  shore  arid  lose  myself 
In  the  blue  waters,  stretching  on,  and  on, 


HYMN   TO   THE   SEA.  495 

Beyond  the  low-lying  headland,   dark  witli  woods, 
And  on  to  the  green  waste  of  sea,  content 
To  be  alone — but  I  am  not  alone, 
For  solitude  like  this  is  populous, 
And  its  abundant  life  of  sky  and  sun. 
High-floating  clouds,  low  mists,  and  wheeling  birds, 
And  waves  that  ripple  shoreward  all  day  long. 
Whether  the  tide  is  setting  in  or  out, 
Forever  rippling  shoreward,  dark  and  bright. 
As  lights  and  shadows  and  the  shifting  winds 
Pursue  each  other  in  their  endless  play. 
Is  more  than  the  companionship  of  man. 

I  know  our  inland  landscapes,  pleasant  fields, 
Where  lazy  cattle  browse,  and  chew  the  cud  ; 
The  smooth  declivities  of  quiet  vales  : 
The  swell  of  uplands,  and  the  stretch  of  woods. 
Within  whose  shady  places  Solitude 
Holds  her  perpetual  court.     They  touch  me  not. 
Or  only  touch  me  in  my  shallowest  moods, 
And  leave  no  recollection.     They  are  naught. 
But  thou,  O  Sea,  whose  majesty  and  might 
Are  mild  and  beautiful  in  this  still  bay, 
But  terrible  in  the  mid-ocean  deeps, 
I  never  see  thee  but  my  soul  goes  out 
To  thee,  and  is  sustained  and  comforted  ; 
For  she  discovers  in  herself,  or  thee, 
A  stern  necessity  for  stronger  life, 
And  strength  to  live  it  :  she  surrenders  all 
She  had,  and  was,  and  is  possessed  of  more, 
With  more  to  come— endurance,  patience,  peace. 

I  love  thee.  Ocean,  and  delight  in  thee, 
Thy  color,  motion,  vastness, — all  the  eye 
Takes  in  from  shore,  and  on  the  tossing  waves  ; 


496  LATER   POEMS. 

Nothing  escapes  me,  not  the  least  of  weeds 
That  shrivels  and  blackens  on  the  barren  sand. 
I  have  been  walking  on  the  yellow  sands, 
Watching  the  long,  white,  ragged  fringe  of  foam 
The  waves  had  washed  up  on  the  curves  of  beach, 
The  endless  fluctuation  of  the  waves. 
The  circuit  of  the  sea-gulls,  low,  aloft. 
Dipping  their  wings  an  instant  in  the  brine, 
And  urging  their  swift  flight  to  distant  woods, 
And  round  and  over  all  the  perfect  sky, 
Clear,  cloudless,  luminous  in  the  summer  noon. 

I  have  been  sitting  on  the  stern,  gray  rocks, 
That  push  their  way  up  from  the  under-world. 
And  shoulder  the  waves  aside,  and  musing  there 
The  sea  of  Time  has  ebbed  with  me,  and  I, 
Borne  backward  with  it,  have  beheld  the  Past, 
Times,  places,  generations,  all  that  was 
From  the  infancy  of  Earth.     The  primitive  race, 
That  skulked  in  caves,  and  wore  the  skin  of  beasts  : 
Shepherds  and  herdsmen,  whose    nomadic  tents 
Were  pitched  by  river-banks  in  pasture-lands. 
Where  no  man  Avas  before  them  ;  husbandmen. 
Who  shaped  out  for  themselves  rude  implements 
Of  tillage,  and  for  whom  the  Earth  brought  forth 
The  first  of  harvests,  happy  when  the  sheaves 
Were  gathered  in,  for  robber-bands  were  near — 
Horsemen  with  spears,  who  seized  their  flocks   and  herds. 
And  led  their  wives  and  children  captive — all 
Save  those  who  perished  fighting  sold  as  slaves  I 
Rapine  and  murder  triumph.     I  behold 
The  shock  of  armies  in  forgotten  fields, 
The  flight  of  arrows,  aud  the  flash  of  swords, 
Shields  pierced,  and  helmets  cloven,  and  hosts  gone  down 
Behind  the  scythed  chariots  :  cities  girt 


HYMN   TO   THE   SEA.  497 

By  grim,  beleaguering,  formidable  foes, 
With  battering-rams  that  breach  the  tottering  walls, 
And  crush  the  gaunt  defenders  ;  mailed  men 
That  ride  against  each  other  and  are  unhorsed 
Where  lances  shiver  and  the  dreadful  sweep 
Of  the  battle-ax  makes  havoc  :  thunderous  guns 
Belching  destruction  through  the  sulphurous  cloud 
That  wraps  the  league -long  lines  of  infantry  ; 
The  charge  of  cavalry  on  hollow  squares — 
Sharp  shots,  and  riderless  horses  !     This  is  War, 
And  these  are  men — thy  children.  Earth  !     The  Sea 
Has  never  bred  such  monsters,  though  it  swarms 
With  living  things  ;  they  have  not  overrun 
Its  spacious  realms,  and  left  them  solitudes  : 
The  desolation  of  the  unfooted  waves 
Is  not  of  their  dark  making,  but  of  thine, 
Inhospitable,  barren,  solemn  Sea  ! 

Thou  wert  before  the  Continents,  before 
The  hollow  heavens,  which  like  another  sea 
Encircles  them,  and  thee  ;  but  whence  thou  wert. 
And  when  thou  wast  created,  is  not  known. 
Antiquity  was  young  when  thou  wast  old. 
There  is  no  limit  to  thy  strength,  no  end 
To  thy  magnificence.     Thou  goest  forth 
On  thy  long  journeys  to  remotest  lands, 
And  comest  back  unwearied.     Tropic  isles. 
Thick-set  with  pillared  palms,  delay  thee  not. 
Nor  Arctic  icebergs  hasten  thy  return. 
Summer  and  winter  are  alike  to  thee, 
The  settled,  sullen  sorrow  of  the  sky 
Empty  of  light  ;   the  laughter  of  the  sun  ; 
The  comfortable  murmur  of  the  wind 
From  peaceful  countries,  and  the  mad  uproar 
That  storms  let  loose  upon  thee  in  the  night 


498  LATER   POEMS. 

Which  they  create  and  quicken  with  sharp,  white  fire, 

And  crash  of  thunders  !     Thou  art  terrible 

In  thy  tempestuous  moods,  when  the  loud  winds 

Precipitate  their  strength  against  the  waves  ; 

They  rave,  and  grapple  and  wrestle,  until  at  last, 

Baffled  by  their  own  violence,  they  fall  back, 

And  thou  art  calm  again,  no  vestige   left 

Of  the  commotion,  save  the  long,  slow  roll 

In  summer  days  on  beaches  far  away. 

The  heavens  look  down  and  see  themselves  in  thee, 
And  splendors,  seen  not  elsewhere,  that  surround 
The  rising  and  the  setting  of  the  sun 
Along  thy  vast  and  solitary  realms. 
The  blue  dominion  of  the  air  is  thine. 
And  thine  the  pomps  and  pageants  of  the  day, 
The  light,  the  glory,  the  magnificence. 
The  congregated  masses  of  the    clouds, 
Islands,  and  mountains,  and  long  promontories. 
Floating  at  unaccessible  heights  whereto 
Thy  fathomless  depths  are  shallow — all  are  thine. 
And,  thine  the  silent,  happy,  awful  night, 
When  over  thee  and  thy  charmed  waves  the  moon 
Rides  high,  and  when  the  last  of  stars  is  gone. 
And  darkness  covers  all  things  with  its  pall — 
Darkness  that  was  before  the  worlds  were  made. 
And  will  be  after  they  are  dead.     But  no. 
There  is  no  death — the  thing  that  we  call  death 
Is  but  another,  sadder  name  for  life, 
Which  is  itself  an  insufficient  name, 
Faint  recognition  of  that  unknown  Life — 
That  Power  whose  shadow  is  the  Universe. 


I 


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I 


